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pasteljeon · 4 years

Text

white chocolate (m) | heartbeat 2

series index.

summary | how is it they know you so well already?

warnings | sub!jungkook, handjobs, soft gguk, some angst

length | 4.9k

notes | hello! super overdue, i know :( but please enjoy, and let me know what you think of this chapter <3 if you’d like to be added to the tag list, please dm me or leave a comment :”)

“You look like you haven’t slept properly in days.”

“No, I just have a natural resting bitch face,” you deadpan. Ahri raises an eyebrow unflinchingly. You wave her off immediately. “Seriously, I’m fine.”

She remains unconvinced, but there’s not much she can do from cities away except send you virtual care packages (read: texts). She’s fully suited up for the day, and you watch absently from her bustle around from where your laptop is propped up on the counter as you drown your poorly shaped pancakes in maple syrup.

“Alright, well. Keep me updated on the roomies situation, and remember to drink plenty of water,” Ahri orders as she finishes applying her lipstick. She checks the screen to ensure there’s no smearing and then she’s buttoning her jacket.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you know if one of them suddenly decides to expose their daddy kink,” you say dryly as you stab your sad excuse for brunch. Ahri perks up. “Rea—”

“No.”

“Okay, but real talk for a second – I heard Jungkook—”

“Go to work,” you chirp, flashing her a smile before you promptly jab the call button.

“Holy shit,” you mutter, closing your laptop.

A jangling of keys interrupts your thought, head snapping up at the sound.

“Jungkook?”

He freezes, halfway to his room already. His gym bag hangs off his shoulder. Oh … Oh.

“H-hi, n-noona,” he mumbles. He refuses to meet your gaze, back muscles tensing through his sweat-soaked shirt. “W-what’s up?”

Oh … he looks …

You imagine the resemblance to the bedroom would be uncanny. You press your thighs together, trying to shake off the feeling. No, you remind yourself. As tempting as it is, anything other than friendship could greatly jeopardize the harmony of this place.

“Do you want something to eat?” You offer instead. You’re relieved when your voice remains steady.

“A-ah, that’s okay noona, I-I’ll grab something later,” Jungkook says hastily as he begins to climb the stairs.

“And risk heart disease with the amount of cholesterol you’d intake with all that greasy food after you’ve just worked out? Hell no,” you retort sternly.

He pauses at the top of the spiral staircase, and you tilt your chin up to catch him rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.

“O-okay,” he says hesitantly. “T-thank you, noona. I-I’ll be down in a few mins, I just need to take a shower.”

He bounds into his room in one leap and snaps the door shut quietly before you can respond.

You close your mouth, blinking. “Uh. Alright, then.”

It hurts.

Jungkook groans, squeezing himself hard as he doubles over, bag tossed to the corner and shirt all but ripped off.

His knees sink into the mattress, other hand gripping his covers tightly as he strokes himself.

His cock has been half-hard since he woke, the lingering ache of a pleasurable dream spiking his arousal.

Every touch is uncharacteristically heightened, even more so than usual, given how sensitive he is.

Shakily reaching for the bottle of lube on the counter, he pours a generous amount on his palm. His hand, rough and covered in calluses, is cool where he thumbs the slit of his cock. Jungkook sucks in a breath.

The chances of meeting you at this exact time was slim – so slim he hadn’t anticipated you standing there, looking so effortlessly beautiful despite how tired you were. Despite his urge to cup your cheeks and kiss those dark circles under your gorgeous eyes, his dick twitched at the sight.

He couldn’t turn around – the sizable tent in his sweats would have been a dead giveaway.

“N-noona,” he whimpers.

A thin sheen of sweat coats his skin, his other hand skimming the crevices of his stomach, pushing the fabric down further until he was kneeling on the bed, spine arched as he increases the speed.

His wrist aches, but he’s so close he can taste it —

Fuck.

Jungkook’s going to cry.

Embarrassment and horror flushes through him. His expression is panicked, doe eyes blown out and wide. His fully erect cock, reddened tip dripping precum, is gripped tightly in his hand.

And you are staring right at him.

“N-n-noona,” he squeaks. He’s appalled at the way the syllables are forced out, his tone edging hysteria.

You close your eyes. And open them.

Yep, that’s Jeon Jungkook alright. On his knees, thick, muscled thighs spread wide and his long, thick cock weeping beautifully in his grasp.

“Well,” you say, after a pregnant pause, leaning against the doorframe. “Go on, since you’ve been begging so sweetly.”

“I—I …,” he’s floundering, shocked, but his erection doesn’t falter. If anything, you think he’s growing even harder at the prospect. It’s interesting how, despite the way his arm jerked upon realization of your presence, as if to move to cover himself, he remains completely bare to you.

He swallows, mouth suddenly dry as you watch him, mouth curled into a lilting smile.

You push yourself off, stepping in and shutting the door firmly behind you.

The firm click of the lock has him tensing in anticipation as you stalk toward him.

You don’t touch him, just slide onto the bed, your legs bracketing his, the heat of your body making his breath catch in his throat.

“Lie down, baby.” He obeys immediately, dark locks spilling across the comforter. His chest rises and falls rapidly, his chiselled body beckoning you closer, but you simply hover over him, arms caging him in.

Your hair falls over him like a silk curtain, tickling his cheeks as your lips brush the shell of his ear. “Is this okay?”

Jungkook looks like he’s about to faint, cheeks colouring and eyelids fluttering shut. He nods furiously, unable to speak.

“I need to hear it, baby boy.” Your breath is warm, skin prickling pleasantly at the feeling.

“A-ah, y-yes,” he mewls.

“Touch yourself.”

You withdraw slowly, rising until you’re resting on your knees above him. Jungkook looks absolutely wrecked already, and you marvel that he truly is an extraordinary specimen, so deliciously muscular and broad yet so willing to submit. The need to feel small.

He moans, the shame escaping him as he starts stroking himself again, cock so generously coated with precum and lube that the slide is seamless. His pace quickens as he gains momentum, the other hand slipping below to fondle his balls.

“Such a dirty boy,” you croon. “Jerking yourself off in front of your noona. You enjoy it, don’t you? Having me watch you come undone, begging so prettily.”

“… me.”

“What’s that?” You drawl. Jungkook pants, practically vibrating as he pleads, “Touch me. Please. P-please, noona. I’m so close.”

His eyes are glossy, eyelashes wet and lips cherry bitten. His spine bows, head tossing from side to side in agony.

Your nails dig into his chest, scraping his nipples. You pinch them lightly as you lean over him once more to murmur, “come.”

Jungkook stills. He lets out a weak cry, voice hoarse and fraught as he explodes. He writhes beneath you, eyes rolling back and back arching as he milks himself. He collapses when he’s done, body melting into the mattress, boneless.

Cum paints his abdomen, stains your shirt and you hum, scoping it up and popping a finger into your mouth thoughtfully.

Jungkook peeks up at you in exhaustion, groaning at the erotic sight. “Noona, please. I don’t think my dick can take any more,” he whimpers.

You smile fondly, brushing his damp locks back as you press a soft kiss to his temple. “Thank you, Kookie.”

“N-noona,” his hand shoots up to grasp your wrist loosely as you move to get up. “I … I don’t … usually do this. I’m a … I’m clean,” he flushes darkly, neck colouring as he glances away shyly.

“… I don’t want to get your hopes up, Kook,” you say ruefully. Your smile is crooked, wistful. You squeeze his hand firmly. “I like you, I do. I think you’re sweet and compassionate and that’s why I’ll never be good for someone like you.” Too innocent, too easily corrupted.

“That’s not true,” he protests immediately. He meets your gaze earnestly. “You’re honest and kind and thoughtful. I know it.”

“I don’t want to break your heart,” you reply softly. “You deserve so much.” More.

“Then I’ll chase you,” Jungkook says, determined. His brows are knitted, lips pursed.

You chuckle, expression unwittingly warm as you lean in to kiss the corner of his eye. “Baby, I’m no good for you.”

“You’re wrong, noona,” he shakes his head furiously. He’s glowing. He’s resolved. ��And I’m gonna prove it to you. Just wait. You’ll fall for me.”

I know. “Wash up,” you say instead, patting his cheek as you rise. “I made lunch.”

You wait until you hear him twist the knob and step in the shower before you leave, the steam curling around your wrist as you shut the door quietly.

“___-noona.”

“Taehyung,” you flinch at the familiar baritone of the photography major, turning around slowly. You bare him a smile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

He looks windswept, raking a hand over the curls falling over his eyes. A camera hangs over his neck, his English hat askew over his head. He looks like he stepped off a freaking runway. His fashion sense is impeccable, as per usual, you muse, maybe a tad fonder than you would’ve liked.

“Hi. Uh, yeah. The stove was on and I rushed upstairs because I was worried,” Taehyung chuckles, glancing at where your hand rests on the doorknob. Something flickers in his gaze, but it’s gone before you can ascertain what it is.

“Ah, yeah. Jungkook came back and I wanted to ask him something, so,” you shrug.

You wait with bated breath for the inevitable question that you know teeters on the tip of his tongue, though you should’ve realized Taehyung isn’t one to barge into unrelated business. He doesn’t ask despite the obvious curiosity that lingers in the way he peers at you.

“About last week … Did I … did I say something weird when I was sick? I can’t remember anything, but Jin-hyung mentioned you asked something about it,” he says instead. His grip on the strap tightens and you tilt your head.

“… Not really,” you say eventually. “You were pretty out of it. Don’t worry, you didn’t embarrass yourself too much. Nothing tweet worthy, anyway.”

“Oh.” Taehyung exhales, the relief flooding through his veins so palpable you frown. “Are you okay? Do you have some dark secret you’re scared of accidentally spilling or something?” You joke.

He laughs, flashing you a wry smile as he takes off his camera. “Would it surprise you if I did?”

You shake your head. Don’t want to know. “Hungry?” Stepping past him, you make your way down the spiral staircase briskly.

Taehyung’s left standing at the top, watching you with an unreadable expression. “Always,” he calls.

He wants to chuck his camera over the railing.

“What did you do?”

Jungkook starts, shirt halfway over his head. He tugs it down, calmly taking a seat on his bed as he pulls on a pair of socks. His heart is thrumming at his throat. He swallows.

“Nothing, hyung. What happened?” Before he can fully twist around, Taehyung’s standing in front of him, hazel irises blazing.

“How could you do this, Jungkook? I trusted you. You promised!” His voice breaks and Jungkook think he’s drowning. It hurts, knowing his hyung is hurting.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jungkook whispers. His gaze drops, guilt causing his shoulders to hunch in. “It’s just – we’ve waited so long to see her again, to meet her again … I was – I was weak. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, hyung,” he buries his face in his hands, shaking. He’s an idiot. He couldn’t have waited? God, he’s despicable.

“We made a pact, Ggukie. Please, it’s not fair to the rest of us if you do things like this,” Taehyung pleads, kneeling and prying his hands away. Jungkook hiccups, cheeks wet as he nods. “I-I know. I’m sorry. I couldn’t control myself, she caught me and I couldn’t resist her, she’s just so beautiful and – and I love her, hyung!” He groans.

“I know, I know,” the older fusses over him, wiping his tears and wrapping him in a tight hug. Jungkook sniffles, settling as he whispers, “I really am sorry. I’ll stay away, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung says, pulling away. “Just for now, okay? We’ll tell her soon, when the others are ready. When she’s ready. I promise.”

Jungkook nods, fingers knotting the hem of his shirt. “Yeah. Okay.”

Jungkook hardly speaks another word the entire meal, save to express his gratitude. He avoids your probing gaze and eats silently. He scarfs down his food, finishing quickly, washing his dishes despite your insistence he doesn’t need to, and disappears back into his room within half an hour.

You prop your chin up with a hand, eyebrow raised as you sip at your cup. “So. Mind telling me what you said to him?”

Taehyung shifts uncomfortably, chopsticks poking at the sad piece of kimchi curled up in the corner of his bowl. “Ah … he’s just embarrassed you caught him earlier,” he mumbles into his soup.

“He told you?” You nearly spit out your water in shock. As it is, the photography major chuckles ruefully, reaching over with a surprisingly gentle hand as he wipes the water from the corner of your lip with his thumb.

There’s something tender in his smile, and something wistful in his expression. Something soft in the way he tilts his head and gazes at you. Maybe it’s the way the sunlight strikes his face at the exact angle because his dark eyes glow, like molten chocolate. The type you’d dip a strawberry into and savour for countless moments after, for the perfect combination of tart and sweet. Taehyung has always been extraordinarily handsome, but you’ve never taken much notice to it until now.

Those tousled curls, the strong jaw line, the boxy grin. But you’re not a fool. Like Jimin, you know he has his own … filters.

It is unwise to fall for someone like him. You’re not compatible. You know this because you’ve tried … once.

“We tried, Tae. It didn’t work, remember?” You whisper, taking his hand. He automatically shakes his head, flipping his palm up to weave his fingers through yours. He’s always been so much bigger than you. You used to feel safe with him.

You hate how he still makes you feel that way despite all this time. Despite everything. His grip is firm, his touch warm. Familiar.

“Please don’t,” you say, but your protest sounds weak, even to your own ears. “I can’t go through this all over again.”

“I know. It was my fault. It wasn’t fair to you, the way I kept all my feelings locked up. I’m sorry. Though I wish we would’ve talked about it after,” he says. He sounds honest now, and you hate it. It makes your chest ache a little at the mention. You’re over it—you are. But sometimes the memories can be a haunting reminder. It’s hard to simply toss away years of what were once precious moments shared with someone you thought was your ‘forever.’

“There wasn’t much to talk about,” you respond dryly. Your arm is limp in his hold. “We just weren’t good for each other. We didn’t work.”

His thumb strokes the back of your hand slowly. “You’re wrong. You were the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You still are. We just didn’t try hard enough. I should’ve never let you go.”

His voice suddenly sounds so honeyed. Airy, despite the low timbre that doesn’t quite match his sharp features. Like he’s sharing an old wound, one that’s scabbed over a million times, but he can’t help picking at until it bled and bled and the scar that forms is thrice as large as it should’ve been.

“Well,” you say after a beat, gently twisting out of his grip. You dump your untouched meal into your bowl, collecting the plates before standing. You flash him a half-hearted smile. “Then it’s too bad you did, isn’t it?”

He’s left with his fingers curled around empty air, heart heavy and stomach roiling. He thinks he can hear the blood dripping from his ribcage, hear the sound of something within him cracking. Love is a lie, lie / don’t tell me bye, bye.

He thinks he’s never going to be able to tell you the truth. And that hurts more than anything else.

It’s a Saturday for crying out loud. The week you’ve just had was borderline atrocious and all you want to do is curl up in bed and watch Netflix, equipped with a steaming mug of tea, wrapped in your fluffy blankets and cuddling your giant bunny plush. You’re not asking for much, really.

“Hello, Namjoon.”

Instead, here you are.

He looks up, startled, as you slide into the seat across him. And then he smiles. “___. I didn’t think you’d come, truthfully.”

At a small, quant café across the science building. It’s rather empty today, the occasional cluster of students wandering in to order bundles of drinks. You’ve been here a thousand times and still you can never find the words to express just how much life this tiny space has sucked out of you. After last semester, you swore you’d never be back.

And yet, here you are. The joy.

“Don’t,” you warn, shaking out your hair as you take off your hat. “Don’t start. I’m just here to hear you out.”

“There’s something you should know,” he starts, faltering briefly at your stern expression. He rakes a hand through his hair, pushing up his glasses impatiently, and it occurs to you this is the first time you’ve ever seen him so stressed and wrung out. “About us …”

“Namjoon, please. You asked me to keep it a secret, and I did,” you answer flatly. Did you seriously drag yourself out of bed for this? You really don’t need another rehash of one of your life’s greatest mistakes. He’s fiddles with his drink, untouched and likely lukewarm at this point.

At your pointed look, he moves to rummage through his messenger bag, and pulls out a plain manila envelope.

Namjoon hesitates, mouth downturned as he says quietly, “The results came through. You’re innocent. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

You raise an eyebrow, snorting in disbelief when he doesn’t react. “You’re serious. Wow. Colour me shocked. Well,” you deadpan, rising to your feet, “This was fun, but the only person that didn’t know was you. Now please don’t ask to see me like this again. I said we were done, and I meant it. Goodbye, Namjoon.”

The bell rings timidly as you disappear through the door, Namjoon watching as you walk away, each step a harsh reminder of how badly he’s fucked up.

And the worst part is that he doesn’t think he can fix it. There’s no making right something like this.

He downs his coffee and stands. He’s always been a failure anyway. What difference does this really make? Sliding the folder back into his bag, he slings it over his shoulder and nods at the owner on his way out.

Bad, bad bye / don’t say goodbye.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Hell. No,” you emphasize, crossing your arms, determined to stand your ground. She pouts, clasping her hands together.

“Yes!” Ahri cries, pulling at your sweater. She adamantly ignores your glare as she riffles your closet. “It’s my only free night back. Please, please, let’s go out! Have a night of fun! I’m so tired of filing tax returns and staring at Excel sheets. I need a break and by the looks of it, so do you.” She turns to give you an appraising look and you groan, flopping onto your bed.

The ceiling is unimaginably unhelpful, so you sit up with a sigh.

“Fine,” you say, but before she can open her mouth, beaming, you hold up a hand. “No boy talk. We are not discussing them or anyone else tonight. Just fun. We can talk about anything else. Deal?”

Your best friend visibly deflates at the thought but acquiesces reluctantly before returning to her hunting.

Finally, she whirls around with a flourish, grinning widely. You eye her warily, not quite liking the evil glint in her orbs. You groan when she brandishes a two-piece you don’t think you’ve broken out in months, probably.

She cheers, hugging you tightly. “It’s going to be great, promise.”

You take the proffered outfit, lips pursed doubtfully. “It better be,” you grouch. “After the week I just had, I’m about ready to throw myself into a floor of lava.”

Ahri pats your back, grinning. “You just need a good dicking down. Trust me.”

The club is inordinately crowded.

The bass booms in the background, reverberating through your body and echoing with every expansion of your chest. Voices are muted in the sea of sound, Ahri eagerly tugging you along as she effortlessly weaves through the throng.

“Hey guys,” you offer them a bland, knowing smile as your friends chorus your name back at you. They seem genuinely excited to be here tonight, to let loose for a few odd hours, and so despite your initial misgivings, you sit and order a drink.

You like social interaction, yes, but after the week you’ve just had, you’d much rather be curled up in bed. But then you glance to the seat next to you to see Ahri laughing and talking animatedly.

“So, ____,” you turn to see a familiar face. “You came.”

“Yuto-sunbae,” you say, pleasantly surprised. He looks great, cheeks lightly flushed, alcohol already circulating his system.

“Dance with me?” He extends a hand.

“Before my martini arrives? How scandalous,” you joke, accepting his offer as he pulls you to his feet.

“You look like you could use some fun,” Yuto teases, coaxing you to the dance floor. You give him an exasperated look, to which he pointedly ignores, sliding your arms over his neck.

“Dance with me,” he says again, eyes imploring. With an exaggerated sigh, you take his hands and put them on your waist.

“Lead the way,” you answer, smiling crookedly.

Jungkook grimaces, uncomfortably pressed against strangers as he fights his way through the crowd, letting out a relieved sigh as he spots them.

“Kook,” Jimin beams, standing to let him in. Jungkook gives him a grateful smile as he shuffles into the cushions next to the group.

“C’mon, maknae,” Taehyung says, patting his thigh as Yoongi slides him a mug of familiar liquid. The composer is already nursing a half-empty glass of his own, not appearing even remotely buzzed.

“Do we have to be here right now?” Jungkook asks, sipping at the concoction. His nose wrinkles, the burn particularly strong tonight.

“Yes, because you’ve been moping all day and you need to get out. Some sunlight, fresh air, you know,” Jimin waves his hand. Jungkook watches as he pours another shot of vodka.

“You, or me?” The youngest remarks dryly as he pushes away the drink.

“Guys,” Hoseok cuts in before Jimin can protest. “Is that … ___?”

Fifteen minutes of staring and stalking your elegant figure twirling through the swarm of people, and they’re drunk.

Yoongi huffs, watching as the other boys make fools of themselves, falling on top of each other as they slur song lyrics like they’re waxing poetry.

With the sole exception of a certain graphic design student. Yoongi keeps one eye on the mess of bodies on the table and the other on the bathroom door Jungkook disappeared into some minutes ago.

“I’m dancing too,” Seokjin announce suddenly, sounding shockingly coherent as he stands. He only sways lightly, slapping away any help, and Yoongi reluctantly sits back, nodding.

“Keep your ringer on,” is all he says. Where the eldest is going, he’ll be able to hear it loud and quick, Yoongi thinks wryly. Seokjin dismisses his concerns and quickly melds into the crowd. Logically, the music major knows the Masters student can handle himself, given his age and experience, but he can’t help but still worry.

Taking another rich swing of his drink, he returns to babysitting and bunny watching.

“Hi gorgeous,” a deep, raspy voice ghosts across the shell of your ear.

You’d lost sight of Yuto a while ago, the boy having been whisked off by a brunette earlier. You were content swaying alone, sweaty bodies pressed against you. By now, you’re agreeably tipsy.

“May I?” You can feel the heat of him, warm and strangely comforting. At your nod, his hands tentatively resting on your hips. They’re a welcome weight.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you murmur. It’s not loss on the newcomer, head tilted down and lingering at the juncture of your neck. You know he’s tall, much taller than you, with the way you gingerly lean into him, upper back meeting the cold metal of his belt.

“I’m nothing if not a gentleman,” he answers. His voice is so smooth, like a glass of aged wine.

You move to turn, but he stops you gently. “You might not like what you see.” For the first time, his tone breaks a little, uncertainty and a tinge of fear edging it.

“I don’t care,” you say, gripping his hand and pivoting on your heels.

His eyes are downcast, bangs covering his expression. You know him, those broad shoulders and thick lips. That beautiful, half-smile he sports.

“Are you sure you want this?”

“I don’t care,” you repeat, cupping his cheeks. A blush rises, complexion reddening lightly. Uncharacteristic of him, thought you suspect it is actually more him than anything else he pretends to be.

His mouth is hot and unbelievably soft, arms drawing you close as he runs his tongue over the seam of your lips.

“Come with me?” He asks quietly, smiling shyly as he tucks a strand behind your ear. You press your forehead against his. “Yeah.”

You laugh into his kiss as he elbows the door open, unable to pull your hands away from each other as they roam the firm expanse of his chest, the first few buttons of his dress shirt torn open, exposing that lovely golden skin you’ve been craving.

“Jessica-noona, please—”

Pulling away at the eerily recognizable voice, it takes you a moment to register what you’re seeing.

A pregnant pause fills the now exceedingly claustrophobic space as Jungkook’s eyes widen, staring at you with panic filled orbs.

“Ah. Sorry, didn’t know this was occupied already,” you say after a beat. You don’t waver, flashing them an apologetic, tight-lipped smile as you close the door, pulling your momentary lover with you.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he blurts immediately when you find a secluded corner. It’s cute, the way he’s anxiously fretting over it.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” you assure him. You smooth your hands over his front, trying your best to fix his dishevelled appearance.

“Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?” He tips your chin up, and you hate the concern in his expression.

“I’m fine. I don’t feel very well, though,” you say regretfully. You give him a small but genuine smile. He allows you to slip away from his grasp hesitantly.

“Please drink plenty of water and rest up,” he murmurs, kiss the crown of your head. “I’m sorry the night couldn’t have ended on a more positive note.”

“Thank you,” you say, squeezing his hand gratefully. You take one last look wistfully, at those deliciously swollen lips and mussed locks, before disappearing back into the crowd.

[11:49] you: not feeling well :( drank too much. heading out, enjoy your night everyone <3

You leave Kim Seokjin standing there, the neon lights flickering over his silhouette as he watches you leave.

You’re going to go home and try your best to scrub the image of Jungkook with his dick in another woman’s mouth.

“Hey.” A cool, firm hand shakes you out of your daze.

“Oh.” You blink. “Yoongi. Hi.” Just your luck. You guess everyone’s here tonight.

The night is cold, a chilling breeze ruffling your hair.

He doesn’t ask if you’re okay, or how you’re doing. His gaze is unsettling, eyes sharp and almost knowing. He doesn’t say much at all, really.

He just gives you his leather jacket, telling you to be careful and to be safe tonelessly.

He shoves his hands in his pockets and trudge back into the building.

Your Uber arrives before you can say anything more, however.

So you shrug it off, resolving to thank him the next morning, and step into the vehicle.

“Idiots, all of you,” Yoongi seethes, whirling around to glare at the three boys that sit on the couch, awkwardly pressed together as they looked away.

“Joon, how could you possibly think a folder and an apology was going to solve the problem?”

Namjoon shrinks, dropping his gaze in shame. “I—I …”

“And you! Jungkook, how could you do that? You effectively acted like some—some uncultured fratboy!” He fumes. The boy in question has his jaw clenched, fingers curled into fists as he stares at his lap.

“Jin-hyung,” Yoongi whirls onto the eldest. He puts up a hand instantly. “That’s enough, Yoongi. We all know where we messed up. What you’re doing here isn’t constructive. Now, the real question is: how can we fix this?”

#smutcentralnet #ksmutclub #ggukienet #btsguild #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #sub!jungkook #taehyung x reader #jimin x reader #yoongi x reader #hoseok x reader #namjoon x reader #jin x reader #ot7 x reader #poly bts #btsghostie #college au

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tessatechaitea · 4 years

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Justice League #1 (1987)

This is actually a more impressive line-up than I remember.

I'm pretty sure this line-up is a huge scam. I don't remember Doctor Fate interacting too much with this group and I think Shazam bows out fairly quickly. Batman probably does that thing where he acts like he's leader (even if Martian Manhunter actually is) and only helps out every sixth mission. So at that point, the line-up is already decreasing in strength and intimidation factor quickly. Adding Fire, Ice, and Booster Gold later won't really improve the team much. But I'm getting ahead of myself. My impressions from this initial cover were "Wow! Pretty interesting team!" and "What asshole fucking decided on the shit stencil font for the title?" Sorry, I cuss a lot when I'm writing on the Internet and trying to seem like a bad-ass. The issue begins with Guy Gardner calling the other Green Lanterns jerks and suggesting, to himself, that he should be the Commander-in-Chief of the new Justice League. Some people would read this first page and think, "What an arrogant fucking asshole." But my stomach got all queasy and I giggled a little bit and I muttered quietly under my breath, "I love him."

I'm not saying it isn't composed of some truly ridiculous aspects but Guy still has the best costume in the DC Universe.

I don't love everything about Guy Gardner because most writers at the time didn't truly understand him. They made him a jerk that nobody would like because they were too cold-hearted to see the brain damaged cool guy that he really was. Guy Gardner often needed to be written by somebody who loved the character; it would have done him a world of good. He could still have been that abrasive jerk. But written deftly, those who actually cared to take the time would see his true self. Sure, that would also be an abrasive jerk! But a little bit more likable!

Stallone was pretty sensitive in a few scenes in Rocky IV!

Black Canary is second to arrive, after which Mister Miracle and Oberon show up. I never quite understood how Oberon fit into the Justice League. Wasn't he like an agent or a manager? Did Batman and Martian Manhunter need Oberon to sign off on every mission or else Scott Free would have to remain behind? I bet he was included just so Giffen and DeMatteis could make dwarf jokes.

Why would Guy choose Sneezy?! Oberon's breathing has been impeccable since he arrived!

Normally after some kind of cynical prediction about the comic book that immediately is proved true, I'd write, "Grandmaster Comic Book Reader!" But it doesn't feel right to say it in this case. I mean, Oberon is present for four panels before he becomes the butt of a joke based on his diminutive nature. And by Guy Gardner, no less! Is this why I loved him so much at sixteen?! What a terrible and typical sixteen year old white heterosexual male I was! Black Canary (whose costume I'm just now noticing is really fucking weird) responds to Guy's awful behavior by saying, "Dozens of GLs around and we get 'Rambo' with a ring!" That's unfair to Rambo! I'm also unsure who in this story (including the writers of this story) have actually seen First Blood. Gardner is more like the authority mad Sheriff Teasle than the sensitive green beret John Rambo! Rambo should be admired as a hero, battling back against corrupt cops who think they have the right to use as much force as they want for any stupid fucking reason! It's possible they were talking about the Rambo from the second film who gets to kill more than one person because the people he's killing are Russians and Vietnamese. He does get a bit murder crazy in the second film. Or maybe they're talking about Rambo from the third film which wasn't actually out yet so I don't have to read up on it. Next to arrive are Captain Marvel, Blue Beetle, and Martian Manhunter. Martian Manhunter proves to be a buzzkill, reminding everybody how the old series ended in total death and disaster.

His view of the media is pretty spot on though.

J'onn calls up the files of Steel, Gypsy, Vixen, and Vibe before purging them completely from the Justice League computer. That's probably a good idea, like deleting old joke tweets on Twitter that were a bit racist and also boring. Meanwhile Maxwell Lord IV watches from a distance, doing that Ozymandias thing where you watch dozens of televisions at once. I think it proves you're a genius whose done the research and contemplated all sides of an issue before making up your totally rational and logical mind about any issue. As opposed to us losers who simply use compassion and empathy to almost immediately understand the correct and most ethical path to take. Maxwell Lord IV watches all of this television and decides the correct course to take is to leave the "America" off of the Justice League of America this time. Oh, and also the "of".

Maybe this is why I liked Guy so much: because he knew the saying was "you've got another think coming." Look, I'm going to be desperately finding good reasons to have liked Guy Gardner so much when Giffen and DeMatteis are this determined to make him a huge and unlikable jerk.

Look, I was sixteen! Hardly the best time in a young man's life for qualities like compassion and empathy and fashion sense and hair styles! I'm also fairly certain it wasn't this comic book that made me like him so much. I'm pretty sure he gets knocked out by Batman with one punch before the year is over and I remember loving that scene. So I probably despised him like a good reader of Justice League was supposed to do. Hopefully he'll have some character moments during this series that will show why I wound up liking him so much as a character. Right now, he's just a complete and utter asshole. The five panels following the one I just scanned consist of Guy once again calling Oberon "Sneezy" and then suggesting Black Canary is going to want to fuck him soon enough. Martian Manhunter tries to break it up and just winds up part of the chaos.

Okay, I'm starting to get why I might have liked him at sixteen, even after the first few pages. To a sixteen year old white male, mocking Martian Manhunter with a "Ho-ho-ho" trumps ableism, sexism, and, with this attack on J'onn for his inherent physical Martianness, almost certainly racism as well.

Guy continues to play the role of Squeaky Wheel for another page or two. I suppose if you want more on-panel time than the other heroes, you've got to be a raging asshole. I can't say I'm not entertained by it!

Captain Marvel earns a little of my love with this line as well. No shame in drinking warm milk at night!

This is only nine pages into the first issue and Guy has completely derailed the formation of the new Justice League. Was this blasphemy to previous fans of the Justice League where the team may have had some minor squabbles about various things and Batman would quit every six issues but mostly they didn't break out into brawls whenever they got together? Or were internal struggles and arguments a regular plot point? I have no idea because the only Justice League comics I read previous to this title were the terrible months where everything was breaking down and then Steel betrayed them and Vibe was killed off and Martian Manhunter felt like a huge failure. Although was Aquaman leading the team at the time? I dislike Aquaman so much, I'm just going to believe he was leading the team and that's why everything completely fell apart. He sucks. Once per day, I think about that lousy meme trying to prove Aquaman wasn't useless by using the image from New 52 Justice League where he controls a bunch of great whites to breach and kill a bunch of parademons and I hate everybody who actually thought that was a cool moment. Batman and Doctor Fate arrive in the middle of the Justice League brawl (which even Martian Manhunter, the only adult in the room, is taken part in) and shuts shit down The Batman way.

I guess heroes are also a cowardly lot.

Meanwhile, Doctor Light winds up being held hostage with the rest of the United Nations by some white terrorists. I felt I needed to say they were white because a lot of racist assholes can only envision terrorists one way. Also, I should always describe people as white when they're white since I don't want to be an accomplice to maintaining a world where we assume a person mentioned is white, male, and heterosexual unless they're described more fully. Doctor Light was given a Justice League emergency beeper by a mysterious figure some time previously. This isn't revealed but I just read Justice League Spectacular #1 so I know Maxwell Lord gave her the device so that she could alert the Justice League when the United Nations was taken hostage by terrorists that Maxwell Lord IV paid. It's all about getting some early press! There's an advert for the new Flash which I'm surprised I didn't pick up since the advert shows him having some kind of accident in a sperm bank.

Ew Flash is right!

The Justice League head over to stop the terrorist attack. At some point, Doctor Fate disappears to go do something else and I think he never comes back? Is that why I barely remember him as a part of this league? Was he just there to look cool on the cover and fool all the lovers of DC magic users? The League storms the UN, murdering several terrorists.

Look. Manhunter either phased their heads into the solid ceiling or he smashed their skulls straight through the roof. Either way, I don't see a high percentage chance of their survival.

The Justice League capture all the terrorists and then Batman has the building evacuated, leaving just the leader of the terrorists alone in the United Nations building threatening to kill himself so that the bomb attached to his heart would detonate and kill them all. He does kill himself but the bomb doesn't detonate. And the thing is, Batman realized during the mission that the bomb was almost certainly a bluff. So he left the man alone to kill himself. Later we discover the man had a history of mental illness. So this, to Batman, is justice? Batman almost certainly realized the man was being manipulated and that he'd definitely kill himself to blow the bomb and Batman let the man do it. Batman is a fucking monster. After the event, the media points out that the terrorists were mostly composed of 60s radical groups like the Weathermen and the Black Panthers. Which is odd because there wasn't one black terrorist in the bunch. The issue ends with Max Lord talking to himself and admitting to being the one who staged the terrorist attack. He also knew the leader was unstable enough to kill himself for the cause and he sent him in with a bomb that definitely wouldn't blow. So he's a fucking monster as well. And Martian Manhunter is a monster, not because he's a weirdo martian, but because he basically popped the heads on a few of the terrorists. No way will I believe those guys hanging from the ceiling by their necks survived! All in all, Guy Gardner is starting to look like a rational member of this group! Justice League #1 Rating: B+. A better than average start to the new Justice League, building some intrigue and conflict right from the start. Who is Max Lord? What are his plans for the Justice League? Why is he acting like it's his group? Will Doctor Fate ever return? Will Oberon poison Guy Gardner? Will Black Canary and Doctor Light become best friends because they're the only women in the League? Will Guy Gardner and Batman ever come to blows? I can answer that! They will not! They'll just come to blow. One punch by Batman. And that one punch causes some severe psychological trauma to Gardner and nobody thinks he should get medical help simply because he starts acting nicer. They're all fucking monsters!

#Justice League #Kevin Maguire #Keith Giffen #J.M. DeMatteis #Terry Austin

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nuttyrabbit · 5 years

Photo

Well, this is a long, LONG time coming. Updated b io under the cut

Name: Gambit the Weasel

Age: 24

Occupation: Mercenary, though technically he’s more of a hitman than anything

Continuity: Post-reboot Archie Sonic, though he can work in the main Sonic verse as well.

Location: Empire City (Born in Empire City, but moved to Westopolis with his birth father at around a year old)

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

Species: Weasel (African Black-footed Weasel is the main design inspiration)

Sexuality: Bisexual leaning more towards men

Personality: Cynical, jaded; an absolute fucking pessmist, always seeing the worst in everything and everyone. Is an absolute shit-stirrer, and will actively antagonize people for shits and giggles. He’s got a real big mouth and will freely and openly speak his mind to anyone, regardless of who or what they are. He loves banter, and will banter with just about anyone on just about anything. He’s always got a comeback or a snarky one-liner for any given situation, you cannot shut this man up. Generally emotionally detached from most people and events, which lends itself to an incredibly dark sense of humor. Also a very “shoot first, ask questions later” sort of person. Cocky, stubborn, and just an all around asshole, Gambit’s not really the kind of guy most people would want to be around, much less befriend.

Skills: Gambit is incredibly accurate with his revolver, seemingly able to pull off near impossible shots when the occasion calls for it, and in general is able to make just about every bullet count. This is helped by his impeccable quick draw ability, making him able to draw his gun and fire in the blink of an eye.

Gambit’s power is luck manipulation, signified by his eyes taking on an intense glow. This power enables him to turn the odds in his favor, sometimes to insane degrees; however, it requires his concentration or it will deactivate. When the situation is life or death, though, his powers will kick in on their own - when this happens, his powers short out and become unusable for a short time after.

Gambit is also impeccably good at games of luck, especially blackjack. Even without his powers backing him up, he can make an absolute killing at the blackjack table, or even something like the slots, although he has gotten kicked from casinos before due to his luck powers letting him “cheat” .

He can be rather charismatic if he wants to be, letting him seduce people or even get information out of others, though more often than not his big mouth and inclination towards antagonism betrays him. Well, that and his stench because he smells BAD

Hobbies: Hobbies: Drinking, gambling, smoking cigarettes and sleeping around are his vices, with alcoholism and gambling outright addictions he has. Gambit’s preferred beverage is beer, though he’s also partial to rum and whiskey. He drinks several times a day, becoming irritable and suffering withdrawal when he goes sober for more than a day.

His gambling addiction is where he sinks most of his money, alongside the booze. He will spend hours at the blackjack, roulette or poker tables. He often wins big due to his luck powers, but gets cocky, neglecting to keep up the act and losing out. Many times he is simply thrown out of casinos, most often for starting fights or cheating.

The other things Gambit typically blows his earnings on are ammo for his signature revolver, and cigarettes. Due to his vices and the need for ammo to do his job, he doesn’t always have enough cash left over to afford a pack. When he can, he goes through one or two packs in a day; so, more often than not, he has to bum a cigarette off of someone else.

Gambit is never seen without his trusty revolver; modeled after a S&W 44 magnum, it’s the most valuable item he owns. He treasures the gun above all else, going so far as to have gotten a custom engraving.

Gambit sleeps around, and does so often. While he is bi, he has a preference for men. He is far from picky, however; his standards are low. If he’s not antagonizing someone, he’s flirting with them, trying to get them either to a cheap motel or back to their place for a few rounds. He never sticks around after, bailing shortly after he got what he came for. Gambit is nigh impossible to commit to a relationship, and will have flings with multiple people a night when given the opportunity. He is, for all intents and purposes, a slut in every sense of the word. Emotional intimacy? Never heard of her.

Fears: He doesn’t fear much, though deep down, he does fear betrayal, which feeds into his complex about trusting people.

Flaws: Gambit’s morality is almost nonexistent, his apathy lending itself to him taking on jobs others may deem too damning. Much like in gambling, his hubris can be his downfall while on the job; he sometimes gets too cocky, counting his chickens before they hatch, and can wind up blowing the contract. He is also at the mercy of his vices, the expenses of which have him living on the streets without food or shelter, often sleeping in the city’s many alleyways and rummaging for food in restaurant dumpsters. Naturally, he smells like garbage. But his biggest flaw, above all else, is his complex about trust. Gambit doesn’t trust anyone or anything outside of himself to the point of paranoia. He outright rejects the idea of joining a gang or teaming up with someone because he’s always anticipating the moment when they turn on him. His past experiences with partnerships have only made this worse. It is why he leaves someone after banging them, it is a huge reason as to why he’s emotionally detached from people, and it is the biggest reason as to why he seemingly cannot form any meaningful relationships with anyone or anything.

Physical appearance: Gambit is 3′5, making him slightly taller than Sonic. He’s rather lanky and lithe, there isn’t much meat on those bones. He’s got crimson eyes that take on a distinct glow whenever his powers are active. He’s got a few scars, with his most prominent one being a chunk ripped off of his right ear. His fashion sense leans towards classier attire with influences from the styles of the 1920s. Akin to his typical outfit pictured in the ref, he usually goes for suit+pants combos. He doesn’t wear vibrant colors often, though he’s not opposed to the idea; he does typically stick to greys, white and/or black for most occasions.

Bio: Gambit was an accident; the result of a careless fling between a corrupt politician and the unfortunate conman who thought he could blackmail her. When the situation wound up with Artemis getting pregnant, she was forced to carry the child to term due to fear of tarnishing her reputation. Artemis forced the child’s father to play along the role of her husband, faking a happy expecting family for the press. Once the baby was born, he was given the name Tai, and he and his father were moved from the public eye. Artemis told the public it was because she wanted to keep her family safe from the stress and exposure her career would bring, but behind closed doors, her plans for her new “family” were much more sinister.

Artemis, in her desperation to rid herself of the problem she created, and stumbled upon Empire City’s darkest truth: the Underground, a sprawling, far-reaching network of criminals, mercenaries and hitmen hidden in plain sight. It was there she would find the solution to her problem, forging a contract that would solve all her problems. It was the perfect crime - Artemis would leave the city on a “business trip”, and during her absence, someone would break into her home and murder her husband and child. The public would eat it up, bless their hearts, and Artemis, the victim, would stay strong in the face of tragedy, boosting her ratings.

Of course, things so seldom go as one plans. Artemis left on her trip, but when the hitman came for the boy and his father, Tai’s powers kicked in. The gun jammed, and his father took the opportunity to take down the would-be assassin. Tai’s father, piecing two and two together, grabbed the young boy and fled out of the city, to Westopolis. Artemis returned to the city, and by that time, the Underground had cleared out the hitman’s body. With the father and son nowhere to be seen, Artemis was told the job had gone off without a hitch, that they had been killed and just like that, all her problems were gone.

Once Tai and his father were in Westopolis, they lived in utter squalor, barely supporting themselves off of what meager money his father could scrape up with his “trade”. Tai’s father was a very angry man at this point, drowning himself in alcohol, constantly screaming and ranting about how the world is full of bastards, how you can trust nobody and how there is nothing good in this world, and often beating and shouting at the young weasel, blaming him for his current circumstances. He barely even fed the young boy, forcing Tai to live off of what meager scrap were left from his father’ meals, and whatever food or water he could manage to sneak away for himself.

The young boy lived like this until he was around 8 years old, when his dad went out for a drink one night and never came back. Several days passed, and the weasel desperately scrounged around the house for what little food he could find, waiting for his dad to come home. Soon, someone did come through those doors, but it was not his father, but instead the cops, investigating his father’s death. They simply told him his father was dead and that he had to come with them. Tai, who at this point had the message of “don’t trust anyone” figuratively and literally beat into him, instead chose to run away, with the cops not even bothering to give chase. “Less paperwork” they said.

From there, the boy lived on the streets, scrounging by on what little food and water he could find, sleeping in alleyway and most of all, avoiding anyone and everyone he could. “Don’t trust anyone, don’t bother anyone, keep your head down low and out of sight, out of mind” are the words that he lived by, the words that were literally beaten into him. And so he lived like this up until he was around 10 or 11 years old, when everything changed.

A local low level gangster, looking to obtain power and prestige within his organization, stumbled across the young Tai. Soon realizing that the young, wide eyed boy could serve as a valuable bargaining chip, decided to try and take him under his wing, and after several attempts, Tai went home with the man. For the first time in his life, Tai lived in an honest to god home. He got served three meals a day, he had actual clothes , there were things to do here other than scrounge for food and stare at the walls. He even got a new name: Gambit

But all was not well. The man intended to use Gambit as a tool, a bargaining chip, and that he very much did. The young boy was passed around to other gangsters, mobsters, lowlife scum, who did unsavory things to the young weasel, who had these fake smiles, comforting words that did the exact opposite, had touches that lingered too long in bad places, who told him things he had never heard of and talked about him in ways he didn’t understand. These made the weasel’s skin crawl, it made him feel wrong and dirty, but his “father” assured him that this was all normal, this was how the world worked.

As the boy grew, so did his knowledge of the world he had been swept into. The man taught Gambit everything: he taught him how to shoot, how to gamble, drink, eat good food, survive, to indulge in the “good things in life”, to use his powers, and again, he hammered home a single, central message: “Don’t trust anyone. Don’t trust anything, the entire world is out for ya.” The growing weasel internalized all of this. Soon, Gambit began to imitate his old man: his mannerisms, his way of speaking, his worldview, even his jokes. Gambit followed his old man in every sense of the world, completely unwavering. He trusted him, seeing him as the father he never truly had, and perhaps hoping the old man saw him in a similar light.

However, things began to take a turn for the worse as he got older. His old man saw him as a tool after all, and he began to have Gambit take care of his dirty work, which went well at first. But soon, Gambit started showing a more rebellious side. He began to not follow orders, indulge in his vices more and more, even blowing the money he got from these operations on said vices. Sooner rather than later, the weasel turned from a useful tool into a complete liability, and his father realized this.

One night, when Gambit was around 18 years old, after yet another failed mission, his father snapped, screaming and ranting at Gambit about how he was a failure, how he was a “useless fuckin tool”, how he never actually gave a shit about Gambit, how he was just a pawn who served no purpose anymore and needed to be gotten rid of. In his fury, he attempted to kill his adopted son, but Gambit got him first, killing him with the very revolver the old man had given to him

Panicking, Gambit took the gun, took some money the old man had lying around, and booked it. He once again returned to the streets, quickly blowing through all the money he had managed to snatch up, spending almost all of it on his newfound addictions, trying to drown out all the horrible feelings that were coursing through him. But in a last act of defiance towards his old man, what little money he had left went towards getting his revolver engraved, something to make the gun truly his. But his mind was teetering on the edge of a complete breakdown: his life had gotten completely upended again, everything he knew was wrong, he was barely to handle it. So, in a desperate attempt to keep him sane and functional, his mind forcefully and deeply repressed almost all of his prior memories, only keeping what he needed to stay alive: his mentality, his skills, his given name, and his attitude.

After blowing through all of his money, and at a loss for ways to make more, Gambit teetered on the edge of starvation and death. But then it hit him: He was real good at killing people, and there were people who’d pay for that shit, so why not just do that? It wasn’t easy, as he failed quite a few of his early jobs, but soon he got into the groove of things, and from then on, his fate was sealed: Gambit the Weasel was a full blown mercenary.

And so things went for a few more years, with Gambit honing his skills, falling deeper into his vices, and being consumed by the all-encompassing bitterness, cynicism and snark that would come to truly define Gambit as a person and help him come into his own. But once again, everything would be upended.

When Gambit was 21, the Black Arms invasion wracked Westopolis, and in the midst of the chaos, Gambit decided to book it to the nearest city, just trying to survive. Soon, he ended up in the City of Dreams: Empire City. Here he would continue to hone his skills, his vices, and his personality.

Today, he continues to eke out a living the same way he always has (or at least how he thinks he has): taking whatever jobs he can, killing people, then blowing it all on his vices. As far as he knows, this is how things have been, and how they will always be. But fate certainly has other plans for him, and one of them comes in the form of a cheeky little spaniel ( @pidgeonspen ‘s Carey) and a certain green asshole (Specifically @frecklefacefromouterspace ‘s Scourge)

Misc: Shout outs to @pidgeonspen for creating the ref sheet, helping to create the design, and basically being my beta reader for the entire thing.

#Gambit the Weasel #OC Stuff #Sonic #Archie Sonic #If you got any questions fire them my way!

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alexandralyman · 5 years

Note

Any chance of a WIP update for Valentine’s Day? Or more sneak peaks? I just miss your stories.

Now, obviously this ask came in over a month ago and I was going to post a sneak peek for you at the time, Anon, but then it got me inspired to start writing something set during Valentine’s Day for BH&H, since I’ve written a bunch of extra scenes set during holidays like Christmas and Easter, but hadn’t tackled that one yet. 4,300 words later, it turned into a somewhat longer scene than I was planning and it’s now the next holiday and Valentine’s Day is long over, but I don’t have a St. Patrick’s Day fic so I’m posting this anyway.

Ordinary Time (Between Heaven & Hell)

Read also on AO3 here and on FF.net here

Summary: Demons don’t celebrate the feast days of saints, but on the day dedicated to lovers Killian Jones is willing to make an exception. As long as that exception takes the form of Emma Swan, that is. Will his angel answer his prayer on a cool February eve in Venice, Italy?

Rating: M

….

No one did revelry quite like Venice.

Old-fashioned lanterns turned the famous canals to rivers of gold, music filled the piazzas from dusk til dawn and the citizenry moved with ease from formal, black tie balls in ancient family piles to after parties held in underground clubs where the dress code was definitely less is more. High fashion models rubbed stylish elbows with counts, new money flirting with old nobility, tourists came from far and wide as they had since time immemorial to gape at the splendour and over every graceful stone bridge and behind every famous church a dark alley beckoned, where purse snatchers slipped away with their ill-gotten gains and prostitutes of both genders fell to their knees to offer their own form of worship, for a price.

Venice dazzled all the senses, but there was a dark underbelly hidden in the floating city build around the stolen relics of one of the holiest of saints, sin and salvation linked as two sides of the same coin.

Killian flipped a gold piece over his knuckles with a dexterity no mortal could hope to achieve and into a medieval fountain. It was a round pool topped with a statue of an angel rising from a platform in the centre, stone wings unfurled against the late afternoon sun and one hand outstretched over the water, the delicate, carved fingers just out of reach to anyone standing below. The coin was a scudi that was as old as the fountain itself,from the days long ago when the doges ruled over Venice as kings in all but name. It was rare and valuable, a collector’s dream (that some would even literally sell their souls to obtain) but he let it fall into the water without a second thought with a flash as it caught the light and reflected it back for a heartbeat before sinking down to disappear into the pile of more humble copper pennies at the bottom. He slipped his hands back in his pockets and glanced up at the angel, a wish wasn’t all that different from a prayer after all and the blank-faced statue must have heard innumerable requests over the centuries from the many who passed through the city and stopped to make an offering at her marble feet.

Would his angel hear him, and finally grant what he wanted above all else? Only time would tell, and he had even more of that to spare than he had gold coins.

He strolled the narrow streets for a while, alone with his memories of the old days while the city teemed around him, packed even more to the gills than usual. It was a day dedicated to lovers, and as the sun set and the stars rose above doey-eyed couples giggled in arched doorways and held hands over bottles of wine, making eyes and making love (not in public, at least not mostly, those dark alleys were playing host to more than just paid trysts tonight) although, strangely enough, the lust he could feel hot in the air was tempered with something else, something that his demonic senses instinctively shied away from and made him want to retreat back into the shadows until it was safely gone again. Still, he meandered on, past stalls selling trinkets like carnival masks and blown glass ornaments that had stayed open late to take advantage of the festivities (avarice, he approved of that), pausing here and there to examine the wares and plucking a single red rose from a bouquet dangling from the hand of a young woman with her arms around her paramour’s neck and her eyes closed into his kiss. Neither one noticed the tiny theft, too wrapped up in each other to see the danger that lurked so close. Killian could have used his unholy influence to spark a sudden argument, insert some disharmony into the romantic tableaux as he was meant to, bound to, stoking the flames of jealousy by turning the man’s head towards a winsome young signora instead of his beloved or greed in the desire for a much more lavish gift than mere flowers, but he stayed his hand and continued on a path only he could see, following his own map through the ancient city of mariners like the pirate he had been, once upon a time.

At the end there was a treasure much more valuable than gold, a light amidst the darkness, one that had always enticed instead of repelled. Rose in hand, Killian waited patiently in a small piazza ringed with packed trattorias and bustling wine bars. Venice’s climate was fairly mild in the winter, but his unusually warm breath turned immediately to fog as soon as it hit the cooler air, forming a cloud of twisted serpents that writhed and slithered away into nothingness with each measured exhale. As he bided his time his attention focused on a pair of young men on the other side of the square who were chain-smoking cigarettes and cat-calling every woman who walked by, clearly full of both too much machismo and too much liquor. He watched the flecks of burning ash fall to the ground with each careless flick of their wrists, the glowing tips turning the crimson of infernal fire as they took deep drags and filled their lungs with thick, noxious smoke. Their voices got louder and more lewd as his influence washed over them, drawing a demon’s attention was never a good thing and Killian’s lips split in a rictus grin of amusement while he fanned the flames a little higher, a little hotter. They were unaware of his presence, but it loosened what little inhibitions they had left as his corruption spread like the smoke and filled the spaces between every dark impulse, every forbidden desire, letting them run riot until nothing else was left.

A distinctively feminine figure appeared in the misty haze and started across the piazza, the heels of her boots making no sound on the cobblestones but drawing every eye nonetheless in an instant and Killian could feel the sinful anticipation rolling off the two men in waves at the sight of her. Long blonde hair fell down the back of a leather jacket the bright red of heart’s blood and it was like waving a matador’s scarlet cape in front of a bull to the two idiots who were about to discover the sword hidden underneath instead. If Killian’s attention was dangerous, hers was even more perilous for mortal souls, especially ones puffed up like peacocks on their own arrogance. He idly twirled the rose back and forth between his fingers and drew his thumb across the velvety petals, his own anticipation for what was to come a pleasant hum under his skin.

“Did you miss me?”

Emma accepted the gift he offered with an innocent smile and a hint of a bow, his manners impeccable and beyond reproach while her own expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. The two cat-callers were still there, but the busy piazza was considerably more quiet now than an angel had descended from the heavens and rendered them both completely mute with nothing more than a look. They were literally struck dumb, opening and closing their mouths with nothing coming out while passersby stared at them curiously, unaware of the role the damned and the divine had played in the little bit of street theatre and that Heaven and Hell both were present only a few feet away in the form of a dark-haired man and a blonde woman, the lone raven and the graceful dove.

But then again, mortals were usually blind to what went on right under their own noses.

“Ciao, Killian,” she said with a roll of her eyes, sidestepping his question but he didn’t really care, his name on her lips was a summons that fanned the flames within and made him burn even hotter under his own black leather jacket. Steam rose from the ground from the heat he was generating, Venice was eternally sinking into the sea and the ground was perpetually damp as a result. He was unable to resist a direct summoning and when she turned he followed, away from the lights and the laughter and into a quieter, residential section of the city where the music faded away and the shadows cut deep. Red leather met rough stone when he backed her into a wall, his taller form easily concealing them from any prying eyes, the raven enfolding the dove and pinning her fast.

“Beata angela,” he breathed hot into the shell of her ear, fingers teasing just under the edge of the leather at her waist. “Did you miss me?”

Her own small hands toyed with his belt buckle for a moment before dipping lower and his eyes slammed shut at the feel of her palm sliding over where he burned the most.

Or second most, but he refused to acknowledge the dull ache in the left side of his chest.

Emma gave a little squeeze that almost made his knees give out and teased right back. “It feels more like you’re the one who missed me, Damnate.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to play dirty,” he muttered, unable to stop the desperate rock of his hips into her welcoming touch.

“And demons aren’t supposed to celebrate the feast days of saints, even if everyone else has forgotten what this day originally was,” she shot back. “You’re not the only one who breaks the rules.”

Killian lifted his head and matched her wry smile. “Point taken.”

He had broken more rules than he could count because of her, what was one more? Their foreheads touched and they just stood like that for a moment, the saint and the sinner, angel and demon, come together in a city barely tethered to the earth and caught eternally between falling below and rising above with each roll of the tides.

…

The small pensione where she had a room for the night had one been a convent, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by the demon next to her with eyes the same shade and sharpness as Ceylon sapphires. He silently read the inscription on the faded plaque next to the door that described the building’s illustrious history with a raised brow while Emma waited for the inevitable smart-ass remark.

“Inviting the fox right into the henhouse to play, are we?” he said at last with a grin.

“More like il gallo, I think.”

Killian understood both the Italian word for rooster as well as the double meaning behind it at once and he chuckled while she unlocked the iron gate that had been intended once to guard the lives and the chastity of those within and keep predators of all stripes out. But the nuns were long gone and her room was not a Spartan cell with only a single cot and a crucifix that the sisters had made due with to keep their vow of poverty, it was comfortably appointed and had come with a bottle of red wine and a heart-shaped box of chocolates for the holy day that had become a secular celebration of romance, clearly meant to be consumed by two. Times certainly had changed, the previous residents would have been completely forbidden from enjoying such decadent luxuries as feather pillows, high-thread count sheets and imported confectionery, let alone from being encouraged to entertain a man in their chambers.

Emma saw him eye the pair of glasses that had been left with the bottle, a hint of uncertainty crossing his handsome face in sharp contrast to his usual confident swagger.

“I do hope I didn’t interrupt any other plans of yours tonight, angel.”

Jealousy. She could see that as well, in the flush on his neck and the darkening of his eyes, a wisp of deadly sin rising between them in the room. Their affair had never included a vow of fidelity, but he always kept the promises he made and there were some things that were best left unsaid, they were too different and he wouldn’t understand. So she didn’t answer him with words, but in the press of her lips to his, a benediction in the soft slide of the kiss that had him stiff-backed and resistant for a moment with his arms at his sides until he relented with a low noise in the back of his throat that rumbled through her and did delicious things between her legs. Hands found her hips, large, dexterous, flexing along the curve and trailing along the strip of bare skin just above the waist of her jeans, under her jacket. His touch was always warm and it shouldn’t make her shiver, but they’d always been a contradiction, the demon who prayed, the angel who sinned. In a deconsecrated convent where celibacy had given way to passion they defied all the rules like the martyred saint for whom the day was named, clothing falling to the floor in a mingled heap.

“Don’t burn my jacket,” she said in between kisses, trying to get it off to join his before Killian’s usual impatience got the best of him and he scorched it into ash.

“Don’t worry, I like the red leather jacket.”

Emma laughed, “Really?”

A kiss was placed into the little dip in her shoulder as the jacket was peeled back that made another shiver down her spine while he murmured against her skin.

“Red leather…black lace…silky little unmentionables, I like them all very much on you. Let’s go shopping tomorrow, I’ll buy everything your heart desires.”

There wouldn’t be tomorrow, couldn’t be, there could only be these few hours stolen from eternity when the world above and the world below were both shut away outside the door. Clothes shed without any casualties, Emma stepped out of the pile and pressed herself to him boldly from shoulder to shin, nipples tightening and feeling the ripple and flex of the muscles up the ladder of his ribs as she ran her hands along them. The heat blazed, enough to fog the mirror hanging above the chest of drawers, antique Venetian glass turning to smoke and blurring their reflection as if it was also hiding them from any divine or damned scrutiny on the other side while they tumbled down to the bed. Killian knelt above her, his blue eyes taking on a wicked gleam that immediately told her he was up to something. There was a ripple in the air and she felt another small weight settle on the bed by her elbow, when she looked down she saw it was the box of chocolates. Killian wound the pink satin ribbon tying it shut around his finger and gave a slight tug, pulling it off and lifting the lid to peer inside.

“So tell me, is this how one is meant to feast in honour of a saint?”

He held up a chocolate between his fingers and it immediately started to melt, dripping onto her chest in a warm drizzle while his grin turned wolfish like the predator he was and clearly, she was the wayward lamb. His dark head bent and that silver tongue flicked out, capturing the drops that flowed down the valley between her breasts and tracing the sensitive curve underneath before going up the slope and wrapping around the taut peak of her nipple. Emma ran her fingers through his soft hair, arching up into the sensations as he carefully licked up every stray drop. The next piece had some kind of caramel filling, swirling in a sticky ribbon down her stomach when the chocolate coating broke apart. That too was caught by his mouth, the ache between her legs increasing with each lash of his tongue and scratch of his beard against the delicate flesh while he moved lower and lower, blue eyes glancing up from beneath those thick black lashes. Finally, finally, the chocolate was forgotten as he started to feast on something else in earnest, spreading her thighs apart and burying his face between them with a muffled groan that Emma echoed with her own cry at the sheer, unbridled pleasure being drawn with each slow and deliberate swipe and stroke. The supplicant kneeling at her altar, Killian was well-versed in this intimate rite and and a liturgy of sighs and moans spilled from her lips at his eager worship while she tightened her fingers in his hair and felt her back arch up off the bed and the strain of her wings as they longed to unfurl and let her take flight. His hands on her hips were an anchor that kept her from flying away until she was falling instead, a moment forever frozen in time as the angel in ecstasy.

Killian sat back on his haunches with an infuriatingly smug look, naked, his erection standing thick and proud and ready but he appeared to be in no particular hurry to use it, reaching over to take another chocolate out of the box and popping it into his mouth instead.

“You hate sweets.”

The smugness only increased as her voice came out laboured and unsteady, while her skin was flushed as red as the rose all along the path that his mouth had wandered. The marks he had left would quickly fade, leaving her unblemished and uncorrupted once more when he was gone but the echo of them would linger on, reminding her that uncorrupted and incorruptible were not the same things and playing with fire could end in a nasty brand.

“True,” Killian agreed after he swallowed the piece. “Most are too cloyingly saccharine for my tastes, but some are more palatable than others, especially when paired with the right accompaniment.”

His lustful gaze wandered over her and left little doubt as to what type of accompaniment he was referring to before he went back to the box and carefully perused what was left, selecting something that Emma couldn’t see at first. The box vanished in a shadow and he revealed a flat, ebony disk that he flipped like a coin, drawing her eye to the movement long enough for him to unfold from his seated position and strike with serpentine speed. He loomed over her in less than a blink, a deadly viper in the form of a man. But instead of venom, his bite was full of the bitter taste of dark chocolate, pressed between their lips to dissolve on her tongue in a swirl of cocoa tinged with hints of cinnamon and spice. It was incredibly decadent, so rich that it was almost too much, velvet smooth and far from sweet.

It was utterly delicious.

The chocolate melted away and it was just Killian, only Killian, always Killian, the one temptation she could never resist and there was no resistance when he pushed inside, she was still pliant and slick and they moved in a languid dance, slow and unhurried. He braced himself on his forearms and rocked his hips in a steady rhythm, his body aligned with hers from the rub of his nose against her own when he dipped his head down for another kiss to the tender press of her breasts against his chest, their legs in a tangle and each slide of hard, male flesh sheathing deeper and deeper within her with each stroke until he was buried to the hilt, fitting perfectly with no space left between them. Darkness and light had once been one, in the beginning, and they were again before the inevitable separation that awaited them.

“Emma.”

He lifted up, her infernal lover, his eyes deep pools of midnight while inky hair fell over his forehead. She scratched her nails lightly down his chest and left a golden trail of blessed light, flickering like the tail of a falling star.

“Yes?” she asked, knowing what he wanted but unable to resist teasing him just a little first. His jaw clenched and his eyes fell shut as the sensation ripped through him, making the cords on his neck stand out while he let out a deep groan that rumbled right through his chest and into her palms. A mortal man would have given in completely at such a jolt of divine ecstasy, Killian was more impervious. His eyes snapped open again and narrowed to a focus that would both thrill and terrify an innocent nun in equal measure. Emma felt him shift his hips, the thick drag of his erection hitting almost just the right spot with the movement and making her clench around him. He was focused on finding the angle that would make her fall utterly apart, thrusting shallowly for a few strokes and then sliding in deep. Her toes curled like petals and her hands clutched the muscular curve of his ass when he found what he was looking for, a dangerous grin spreading across his lips in response.

“Emma,” he repeated, a clear note of command in his tone. “Say. It.”

Speak of the devil and he doth appear. She knew what he wanted, more than just sex, he wanted her to name him and acknowledge his true form, the demon in her arms, inside her, to give him that power and give in to him completely. Unseen flames licked at her skin the same way his tongue had traced every inch, coaxing and cajoling, while his voice was the only one she heard, command turning to a fervent plea that drowned out everything else.

“My blessed one, my angel, say my name. Say you want me, only me. Please!”

It came out like the peal of a ringing bell, clear and sweet, the sacred wrapped around the profane. “Killian!”

Light flared incandescent, divine radiance meeting infernal fire and creating a conflagration that engulfed them both. Killian let out a near howl of triumph, bucking hard against her for the handful of thrusts it took to send them both spiralling into white hot bliss. His name spilled over her lips again and again, the broad shoulders shuddering in response to each while his face was buried in her neck. His inhuman pace faltered and finally went still, his limbs slack although something else remained stiff even as her voice turned to a feathery whisper and the fire slowly died down to embers. That too softened at last, and they cleaved apart once more.

“Lent is early this year.”

He said it casually, as if he was just making idle, post-coital pillow talk. He used to smoke cigarettes afterwards, but that had stopped at some point years ago. Emma rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her palm.

“I know.”

Ash Wednesday was only a few weeks away. Unlike the fixed dates of other feasts like the one currently being celebrated with flowers and candy it varied every year and on this particular liturgical cycle it fell early on the calendar, marking the start of forty days of fasting and repentance among the faithful. Emma was among them, forsaking earthly vices like chocolate and caffeine (and a blue-eyed demon who was the hardest of them all to give up) for six weeks and doing penance in hopes of absolution.

There was a resigned sigh from above and the arm he had wrapped around her bare back tightened a bit, holding her in place for a moment until he relented and loosened his grip.

“Well then, I suppose that just means it’s over sooner.”

They lay in silence, the minutes ticking back as time marched inexorably on even for two immortals. He had been gone over Christmas, departing as he usually did in late November just before the start of the Advent season, and Lent loomed just ahead of them in early March. The brief stretch in between was Ordinary Time, a reprieve from it all when she could pretend to be just Emma Swan and not an angel of the Lord.

For a little while, at least.

“I did, you know.”

She lifted up slightly on her elbow and met Killian’s confused look.

“You did what?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

“I missed you.”

The smugness was gone and there was surprise instead, a boyishly pleased smile blooming like the rose across his face at her simple confession. He was even more dangerous like this,

when he asked for nothing and she wanted to give him everything.

She didn’t do penance during Lent for herself. Giving everything else up was easy, which was precisely why she had to sacrifice him.

“And I know you were goading on those two morons back in the square,” she added, poking him in the ribs.

Killian didn’t bother trying to deny it, one shoulder lifting in a shrug. “I had some time to kill and as you pointed out earlier, it’s the feast day of a saint. Had to introduce just a little discord into all this soppy romanticism, I do have a reputation to maintain, blessed one. Besides, I knew you could handle them before they got too out of line. I had faith.”

She made a non-commital noise at that and rested her head back down on his shoulder. The two men had thought they had the upper hand, seeing only a lone woman to tease and torment and nothing more. At least at first. She had given them a glimpse of her divinity and not held back, a halo forged directly from the light of a star, wings that were twice the height of a man, revealing her true form in all its Heavenly glory. She wasn’t just Emma Swan and he wasn’t just Killian Jones no matter what the season or the date on the calendar.

Emma felt his fingers thread gently through her hair and the rise and fall of his chest under her cheek, closing her eyes while he pulled the blanket over them. They could never be ordinary, but they could be like this, at least for a little while.

#cs ff #cs fic #my fic #bh&h #cs smut #lovely anons

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oracleffxiv · 3 years

Text

From Eternity - Prelude to Endwalker

Rikyo Takahashi, after months of searching, finally came up against her nemesis. She faced down the Stranger- and lost. She'd been beaten. For the first time in her life, truly defeated. The Man in Black pays her a visit and, in his annoyingly cryptic way, offers her the first lead on the final case that would define her for all eternity.

“All rise. This special judiciary council has been called to discuss the irregular events surrounding the defendant, and give judgement to their validity and their outcomes. State your name.”

“Rikyo, daughter of Lord Hiroki and Lady Mai, house of Takahashi.”

“Do you understand why you have been summoned here today?”

“You are concerned that I’m running around, making love to voidsent. Subverting the good and peaceful nature of the world. I don’t know if you’ve looked outside lately, but-”

“Your wit is not going to help you here, detective. You had best continue forth with candour.”

“I can do candour. This tribunal is a waste of time.”

“We, respectfully, disagree. Start from the beginning; from when you first encountered the demon.”

“The demon, the other demon, or the other demon?” “Miss Takahashi.” “... fine. It started around six months ago. I was on the trail of a vigilante known only by the name ‘the Stranger’. I was coming to the end of the case, when I received a visitor.”

Rikyo’s story will conclude in Endwalker.

Rikyo walked. One step after the other. And the next. And one more after that.

The Man in Black was sitting at the table opposite her. Upon it sat the chess board. No other features existed in this blank white void that hung between reality and unreality. The board itself was blank. The Man in Black patiently awaited her arrival, hands clasped together. Perfectly ordered, pitch black hair framed a pale and angular face. His mouth was curled in a polite smile.

“Good day,” Rikyo offered. She shrugged the coat from her shoulders, draping it over the back of her chair.

“Good day,” the Man in Black responded. “It has been some time.”

“Indeed.” Rikyo couldn’t exactly remember when last she’d sat opposite this man. It was many, many moons ago, while she was still on the tail of the cultists. That was before the first demon had come to haunt her. Before Mobius and Lemniscate. Before she’d closed that case by… by…

“Best not try to recall that now,” the Man in Black interrupted. “Lest we invite a most unwelcome specter to sour the mood.”

Rikyo nodded, though she wasn’t sure why. “Quite right.” Chess, after all, is a civilized game for civilized people. There’s no much sense in inviting discord without a goal to pursue.

The detective took her seat. The board was empty, but in looking upon that checkered field she could see all of her world unravel before her. “The game is coming to an end,” the Man in Black commented. “Checkmate is mere moments away.”

Rikyo watched as a single piece rose from the center of the board, like some beast emerging effortlessly from the ocean. The white queen piece. Opposite it, a handful of spaces away, arose the black king piece. One by one, black pawns moved up through the wooden surface of the board to form a circle around the queen. The white king piece was nowhere to be found.

“Checkmate has come and gone,” she remarked. “There is no opposing king left to fight.”

“Quite right.” The Man in Black had not moved, except to speak. “That is the game, so according to the rules.”

Rikyo turned her gaze back up to him. “You would suggest I oppose the rules?”

The Man in Black cracked a smile. A real one, this time. “You are no stranger to this, I understand.”

An image of Kokoro flashed across her mind. She hummed in disdain. The rules had been broken against her time and again; that was his meaning, but in this place of his creation, her reactions were his will too.

“It is not your way to invite me here simply to mock me,” Rikyo said. “You have never called a meeting in this place before without some… motive. You would do well to share with me what you know.”

“After all these years, your patience has known no grace.” The Man in Black gestured to the board. “Pay close attention, detective, and remember my words; for I will speak them but once.”

Rikyo did just that. Before her eyes, the pawns began to change; the dome-like shape of their heads warped and shifted, until upon each there sat a familiar mask. Each wore a face of carved wood, though each mask was white as opposed to the pieces’ own black.

“Masks,” the Man in Black spoke, “are the tool of the betrayer. The masks we wear prevent us from revealing our true selves to those who stand by our sides. They expect us to appease them, but brutal honesty and the true self is as feared as those demons that strike from the shadows.”

Rikyo curled an eyebrow. “You speak of the Stranger?”

The Man in Black gestured for her to come closer, and, himself, leaned in. He had never done this before; a breach of his otherwise perfect etiquette. A cold chill ran up Rikyo’s spine, but she leaned forward all the same.

“There are no strangers here.” He smiled a wicked smile, resuming his perfect posture.

Rikyo did the same. “Who, then?” she asked, pointedly. “Who is the Stranger?”

“The who is irrelevant, detective.” He crossed his hands on the table. “I had thought you had figured that out by now.”

“I’m afraid I must disagree.” Rikyo looked again at the pieces on the board. “If I learn who they are, I can bring them to justice. Eliminate them, if necessary. They cannot be allowed to continue.”

“Justice,” the Man in Black echoed. “I’m very glad you brought that up. Justice is what has wholly failed here, detective. For is it not true that justice has failed to level judgement against you?”

“That’s not fair. What I do is for the greater-”

“And yet.” He stood, and waved his left hand. As if they’d been there all along, Rikyo now saw a number of people standing in an orderly line. They weren’t so much people as they were images; like cutouts of those they depicted. Each of them, Rikyo knew all too well.

She watched as the Man in Black stood by the first in the line, a hyur man in a long coat. “John Penderbrook,” the Man in Black declared, “who began your investigation of the Kugane cultists. He who, knowing full well the consequences, led you into their web of lies.”

The next in line was a raen woman of noble blood- impeccably put together, and with the glint of destruction in her eyes. “The Yamamoto? Those who stood idly by and watched, pleased, as your home and family crumbled?”

He moved on to the next. It was a pair of mannequins, totally void of all features. “Mobius and Lemniscate,” the Man went on, “agents of the shadows who planted seeds of corruption among the Sekiseigumi.”

Next was a xaela; red skinned and with scales that would shatter steel. “Rakona, the Ironscale, whose chaos disrupted your life then left you in ruin.”

A seeker. One eye, an aqua green. The other a stark red. “K’aila Riki. Your first friend. Your enemy. The only woman who can say she is your ‘friend’ and not have to qualify the statement.”

The Stranger. No matter how hard she tried, she could not see behind the mask- only that their eyes were closed. "This being, this… reflection of the self. Who is the Stranger, indeed? Well, if we all knew that, we wouldn’t need the mask now, would we?” The Stranger opened their eyes, and her own bright amber pitch burned a pit in Rikyo’s soul.

Finally, the Man in Black came to a group of three. They were positioned in a vague semi-circle, and despite her best efforts, Rikyo could only look at each one the Man indicated in turn.

First, it was Daisuke. He stood tall, proud, determined. His actions were not his own. “Your brother? He who moved on with his life, even accepting the aid of the Yamamoto, while you put your life on the line to free him from exile?”

Rikyo wanted so desperately to speak out, berate the Man for speaking ill of her brother, but she could not speak. This was his world, not hers. She could only watch as he continued.

“Hikosuki of the Malqir.” The Man in Black placed his hands upon her shoulders, and Rikyo narrowed her eyes. “Anger. Violence. Fury. Curious, isn’t it? How much power can hide within such a little thing?”

The Man pulled his hands away from her rather sharply as a red-purple smoke rose from where he touched her shoulders. He didn’t seem so concerned about that, as he moved on to the one Rikyo would rather he leave out of this.

“Kokoro Ijiri.” She looked upset, distraught. Broken. The Man in Black reached to brush a strand of hair free from her face. “Love. Pain. Betrayal. The woman who kept the very nature of your existence from you. Imagine: someone could tell you the meaning of your life… and they choose not to.”

The Man in Black stood between the three. “And… one more. Who am I, detective?”

Rikyo blinked. “You?” His name- his image- danced around the edges of her mind. Who was the Man in Black? Why couldn’t she remember his name?

Between one blink of Rikyo’s eyes and the next, all of the people around her disappeared. Only the Man in Black remained. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, detective. My attention is required elsewhere.”

“Wait!” she called out, as he turned on his heel. “What do I do now? Kill the Stranger before they can kill me?”

The Man in Black chuckled. He reached out, taking hold of a handle to a door Rikyo hadn’t even seen. He looked back at her, and in his eyes, she saw eternity. “My dear detective- you are already dead. Play the game according to your own rules, and perhaps you will find the answer to the only question that matters.”

“What question?”

The Man in Black opened the door, revealing an elaborate hallway fashioned in Doman decorations beyond. She heard his voice, clear as day, even as he closed the door behind him.

“Who killed Rikyo Takahashi?”

Rikyo turned, looking back to the board. All that remained was the white queen piece and the black king piece.

* * * * *

Rikyo opened her eyes.

She couldn’t tell where she was. The room was unfamiliar. She couldn’t feel her legs or her body or… anything really. This wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation. She’d been numbed for medical reasons. The only thing left to feel was the cold itch of fear as it crawled up her back.

She’d lost. The Stranger had beaten her. There were cases she’d never solved, but never a case that had beaten her- until now. She had faced a foe greater than she was and, in her fury, had lost sight of herself and paid the price. She was, for the very first time, truly and utterly defeated.

That day, Rikyo wept.

#Rikyo Takahashi #ffxiv #ffxiv rp #endwalker #shadowbringers

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marypsue · 6 years

Text

Something Borrowed, Something Blues 3 / ?

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / ?

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

In the Mindscape, something stirred.

Dipper felt the ripples, less like a water droplet landing in a still pond and more like the aftershocks of an earthquake. He stopped in the middle of seeding a particularly good Ghost of Presidents' Day Past nightmare in the mind of a slumbering corrupt public official, and listened, hard.

The ripples died away, slowly, to a faint tremor and then only a dissatisfied grumbling. But something had changed - something had shifted. The tenor of the Mindscape had modulated to a different key. And by the sounds of things, that key was minor.

Dipper groaned, and twisted together the ends of the dream, leaving it on a cliffhanger with a heavily-implied 'to be continued'. He'd be back the next night to give the lady Presidents' Days Present and Future and work the moral in there. Probably. Unless whatever had caused the ripples was more interesting, or he forgot.

It took some tracking to locate the source of the ripples - they'd all but died away by the time Dipper started to look, and there were enough echoes and distortions around the Pacific coast what with all the pockets of residual demonic energy that were still hanging around even a full millennium after he'd destroyed half the coastline, it was like California itself was holding a grudge - but eventually, Dipper managed to narrow down the epicentre to a few square miles.

And groaned, again.

He knew exactly where the ripple had started. Because, of course, right smack-dab in the middle of those few square miles was the town of Gravity Falls.

"How is it that, even after the entire world gets turned into a museum of the weird, this is still the weirdest place in it?" Dipper asked the town at large.

Gravity Falls, obviously, didn't answer, sitting innocuously quiet and cheerful in the summer sun.

A metaphysical tug pulled Dipper's attention away from the town before he could spend too much time staring at it and reflecting on one of the few secrets of the universe he still, for all his omniscience, hadn't managed to crack. Mira was calling, with apparently impeccable timing.

"What's up?" Dipper asked, popping into Mira's living room. Mira was beaming head to toe, wearing what looked like every petticoat she owned, and holding Ian's hand with the hand that wasn't waving a bag of candy-coated chocolate-covered peanuts.

"Guess what? We're moving this wedding to Gravity Falls! Like, right now. As in we are eloping. Candy-coated peanuts in exchange for a little help getting there?" She gave the bag another wave.

Dipper looked from Mira, to Ian, and back to Mira again.

"You're kidding me, right?" he asked, finally.

Mira glanced over at Ian, both of their smiles slipping slightly.

"Oh no," she said, her voice dropping. "Now what?"

"Okay, I'm putting Niagara back on the table," Ian said. "The tourists aren't as bad after the summer season...or we could take the rebooking the Castle on the Hill offered us, and that'll give us time to find that shipment of bridesmaid dresses -"

"No," Mira said, not looking away from Dipper’s face. “What’s going on, Alcor? I thought you'd be happy we'd picked somewhere that was so important to you." Her voice was too sweet, her smile too tight. Dipper had to stuff down a shudder.

“I...actually don’t know yet,” he admitted. He scowled at the way Mira rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “Hey, a random magic ripple came out of there not five minutes ago! The whole Mindscape’s still humming! And then you summon me up and want to go there? Something is weird here.”

Mira's eyes narrowed, and Dipper had to resist the sudden and almost overpowering urge to look over at Ian.

"Yeah, I'm actually with the literal demon on this one," Ian said, finally giving Dipper an excuse to turn in his direction. "No offence, but last time we got mixed up with mysterious forces beyond our comprehension..." He finished the sentence by waving one hand vaguely in the direction of his prosthetic eye.

Mira sucked in a long breath, her expression terrible, and then slowly let it out again.

"Can you find out what this magic ripple was?" she asked, her voice the particular kind of tight of a very angry person trying to be calm and rational.

"Probably, but it might take a little while," Dipper answered, honestly.

"Great. How about an overbooking at our venue? Can you fix that? And find my lost order of bridesmaid dresses? And while you're at it, do you want to finish our seating chart? Please bear in mind that I'm pretty sure one of Ian's relatives may actually drop dead if she gets startled or touched by a cool breeze, and that my sister is planning on bringing an actual baby Chinese Fireball as her plus one." Mira set the bag of candy-coated peanuts down on the couch behind her, ticking off things on her fingers as she listed them. "Oh, and we still need to sort out whether or not Grandmother is coming and whether or not she's bringing her boyfriend, and whether he's bringing his boyfriend, and get the rest of the invitees who haven't RSVP'd to get on that so we can get numbers and any food sensitivities to the caterer so that we know how much we're going to have to pay them so we can decide how much budget we have left for flowers -"

"All right, I get it!" Dipper interrupted, and Mira sucked in another long breath, this time less like she was trying to keep her patience and more like she was trying to catch her breath. "Seriously, I get it, this wedding planning stuff sounds like a nightmare. But can't you, I don't know, just go down the street to the JP and get it done this afternoon?"

Mira slowly sank down onto the couch, her pile of petticoats enveloping her and the bag of candy-coated peanuts.

"Yeah," she muttered, from somewhere within the cloud of tulle. "I guess so." Even if Dipper hadn't been able to see and feel the soggy concrete-coloured blanket that fell over her aura, the defeat was obvious in her voice.

Ian shot Dipper a helpless look, and Dipper winced in sympathy.

"Look, give me twenty-four hours," Dipper finally said, making up his mind. "I'll figure out what's going on in Gravity Falls and whether or not it's safe for you guys to go up there. And if it's not, or if I can't..."

He sucked in a deep breath he didn't really need, feeling lungs he hadn't had a second before inflate. "Then I'll help you with your - ugh - seating chart."

...

Gravity Falls was nothing like Dipper remembered it, and yet, somehow, it was exactly the same.

Oh, on the surface it had changed a lot over the years. The forest had grown up, and been cut back; businesses and families had come and gone; a city had sprung up around the protective magical bubble surrounding the site of the world’s greatest magical disaster, and then withered away again as magic became more commonplace, its birthplace protected by a national park. Generations had come and gone, each leaving its small but significant mark. The statue of Nathaniel Northwest had been pulled down and replaced by, of all things, a buffalo.

But the UFO-shaped hole in the cliffs still loomed over the town, protectively cupped in its little hollow. The five-times-great-grandchildren of the Manotaurs Dipper had met on his and Mabel’s first summer there still roamed the mountainside, challenging unwary travellers to arm-wrestling competitions and antagonising the Multibear. The gnomes still migrated underground every winter, only to emerge, freshly energized and doubly annoying, every spring. Dinosaurs still slumbered, encased in ancient sap, beneath the townsfolk’s very feet. Something still lurked in the lake, dropping the occasional enormous tooth or eyelash to wash up on the shore.

But more than anything, Gravity Falls had still somehow kept its sense of mystery. Dipper Pines had been a demon for a little over a millennium, now. He’d survived having his puny human skull cracked open and the whole universe crammed inside. He’d had a little more than a thousand years of experience of the world. He rarely, if ever, got infodumps anymore, because he’d grown into his near-omniscience, learned how to handle and harness it. Very little remained hidden from him anymore, and even less shocked him.

And yet, every time he arrived in Gravity Falls, it still felt like the first time. Like there was something bigger going on than even he knew, something hidden, like he was only glimpsing the very nearest curve of something impossibly vast and mostly buried. That same old, familiar thrill of stumbling over a mystery that had been hidden in plain sight all along.

And, even a full thousand years since magic had become mundane, Gravity Falls still kept its mysteries closely guarded.

Dipper popped into the Stanley Pines Memorial Library of the Supernatural first, in its airy, sleek new building at the edge of town. He’d lost track of how many new buildings the Library had had since it had finally had to be moved out of the crumbling Mystery Shack several centuries ago, but this one was still pretty new, less than a hundred years old. There were still a few people living in Gravity Falls who could trace their family history back to Willow Pines, but only one of them still worked at the Library, and none of them could still see Dipper if he didn’t want to be seen.

He concentrated for a moment on perfecting his ‘Tyrone Pines’ disguise before venturing out of the basement stacks, climbing the stairs and shooting the reference librarian on duty his most charming grin. Too late, he remembered to make sure his teeth were appropriately blunted. It hadn’t been fashionable to wear fangs for at least three decades. If he got caught out because of a fashion faux pas, Mira’d never let him live it down.

“Hey,” he said, strolling up to the reference desk as casually as he could. Did people still use ‘hey’ as a greeting? Dipper couldn’t remember. “How’s your afternoon going?”

The reference librarian smiled toothily at Dipper, and that was when he realised she was a hologram. He was talking to a customer service AI. Well, great. She probably wasn’t going to have the gossip he was really there for.

“It is a pleasant afternoon,” the AI agreed. “Is there some information I can help you look up? A book or resource you’re looking for?”

Dipper considered for a moment. “Is there any social media chatter about any recent, strange phenomena in Gravity Falls?” He thought about it for another moment, before adding, “Strange by Gravity Falls terms, that is. And - only within the last day.”

The reference librarian beamed, literally, the holopixels in her teeth emitting a fraction more light than before. Her expression went a little still for a moment, before she blinked and said, “Nope! If you’d like, I can expand your parameters and do another search.”

Dipper managed not to sigh. That was pretty much what he’d been expecting. “Sure, all right. Give me anything out of the ordinary in Gravity Falls in the last week.”

The reference librarian went still again, her smile glowing a perfect white. It glowed, and glowed, and glowed, until it got hard for Dipper to look at with his jelly-filled human eyeballs. The reference librarian blinked, and then blinked again, and again, the blinks speeding up until her eyes were a blur, her head beginning to twitch spasmodically back and forth -

“Oh no no no,” a voice said from behind Dipper, and he stepped out of the way for the harried-looking young person who ran up and leaned over the desk, toggling a switch behind the desk back and forth. “What did you ask her?”

Feeling a little sheepish, Dipper said, “Uh, for anything out of the ordinary in Gravity Falls in the last week...?”

The young person fixed Dipper with a stare that clearly said they thought he was as stupid as he felt just then. “Well, that’d be why she overloaded, yep,” they said, hopping up and vaulting over the reference desk to land beside the frozen hologram, still flickering with glitch. They knelt down so that Dipper could only see the top of their head over the desk, shaved almost bald and with what looked like a metal mohawk glittering with tiny LEDs sticking out of it. “What were you doing asking for something like that?”

They must have pressed some button or crossed some wire, because the hologram jerked, the top of its head and the middle of its torso stretching away in opposite directions, turned abruptly into a tall, attractive man, then into a small bowl of petunias, and then vanished. The person with the metal mohawk re-emerged from behind the desk, breathing hard and not looking particularly impressed, to give Dipper a searching look. “You’re a new face around here.”

“Tyrone Pines,” Dipper said, extending a hand. Metal mohawk looked down at it like they were trying to work out whether it was likely to explode. Dipper tucked the hand back down at his side, feeling self-conscious. “Our instruments picked up an unusual surge of magic from somewhere in this area about half an hour ago, and I’m trying to figure out what might have caused it. Have you seen or heard about anything out of the ordinary for Gravity Falls occurring recently?”

Metal mohawk looked Dipper up and down. “You’re a little young to be a researcher, aren’t you?”

“Grad student,” Dipper lied. “And I’m older than I look.” At least that wasn’t a lie. “And I might be missing out on the opportunity of my academic career here, so...can you help me out?”

Metal mohawk gave Dipper another long, searching look before saying, “Don’t they still teach you guys how to effectively use search engines in undergrad? AI’s come a long way, but processing power still costs money, y’know.”

“I just didn’t think,” Dipper ground out, the tips of his manufactured ears burning. He barely resisted the urge to check and make sure they hadn’t gone pointy on him. “Figured she’d have a filter for Gravity Falls background weirdness radiation.”

Metal mohawk shook their head. “How would anyone ever decide what was significant and what was ‘background weirdness radiation’? In Gravity Falls? Do you want to try coding that nightmare?” They took a deep breath, visibly composing themselves, and ran a hand down one shaved side of their skull. “What you’re looking for, basically, is gossip. Am I right?”

“You’re not wrong,” Dipper admitted.

“Sorry,” metal mohawk said, not sounding particularly sorry. “I’m not real big on gossip.” Their LEDs all flashed once, in unison, and they said, like they were just remembering, “I do know they’re just breaking ground up by the cliffs to put in one of those awful hovervator tour centres. With the glass floors? Maybe they dug something up, people are always finding weird buried crap around here.”

“By the cliffs?” Dipper asked, a sinking feeling burrowing into the pit of his stomach for no reason he could explain and making itself at home there.

“Yeah, just at the base there. Apparently it’s a great launch platform for the hovervator cars.” Metal mohawk’s face split in a vicious smile. “Wonder what they’ve decided to do about the wonky magnetic fields up there, though. Last I heard, the company the state hired to put the thing in was six weeks behind schedule trying to figure out how to get the cars out over the valley without them falling out of the sky.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Dipper said, thinking of the UFO buried in the middle of the valley with a shudder.

Metal mohawk shrugged one shoulder. “Well, maybe if they did dig up something of magical significance, they’ll have to abandon the project, or move it somewhere else. Anything that might be part of the world’s magical heritage is super protected as part of the park, you know.” They paused, pointing one finger at Dipper. He noticed, vaguely, that their nails were all painted silver - or maybe covered in some kind of silvertoned metal plating. “Which means you and your prof are going to need alllllll kinds of clearance and paperwork if you want to remove anything for study. Don’t go getting any big ideas.”

“Definitely won’t,” Dipper agreed, with a nod. “Thanks, I think I’ll head up that way and check it out.”

“Don’t mention it,” metal mohawk said. “Oh, and if you ever short-circuit my reference librarian like this again, I’m going to personally find you and make you reboot her yourself.”

...

Dipper stepped out of the Library, and took a long, deep breath. The air seemed somehow fresher here, less tainted with smog than New California and faintly scented with pine and petrichor. Somewhere off in the trees, there was a warbling of birdsong and the firecracker rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker. The sun beamed down hot and crystal-bright, warming Dipper's fleshsack from the outside in.

He'd really forgotten what it was like to be physical - not just present in the physical plane, but inhabiting a body, tailor-made to his specifications, for no other reason than to be in a body. It was...nice. Maybe just in small ways, but they were small ways he definitely hadn't appreciated enough when he'd had a meat body full-time. Dipper wondered, vaguely, whether he'd be in town long enough to justify getting a meal. A memory of Greasy's pancake stacks drifted to the surface of his thoughts, and Dipper gave himself a moment to mourn for things lost to the passage of time. Say what you liked about the rest of the food at Greasy's Diner, they'd made really good pancakes.

It was a nice day, Dipper decided, at last. He hadn't taken the time to human properly in...a while. He didn't want to get out of practice and forget how. The hike up to the cliffs would be just the thing to enjoy the fresh air and the sunshine, and the hike back would be just the thing to work up an appetite.

He managed to get to the other side of town before giving up and teleporting himself up to the foot of the cliffs. That was another thing he'd forgotten about flesh bodies - how quickly they wore out.

"How does anyone get anything done with these noodle limbs?" Dipper complained to no one in particular as he rematerialized, just on the inside of a fence made of bright orange plastic netting.

"Hey! You! This is a private work site!"

Dipper looked up, to see a woman built like a bear crossed with a monster truck bearing down on him, her expression thunderous under her scuffed yellow hard hat. "How'd you get in here? Where's your PPE?" she demanded, pulling to an abrupt stop only inches away from Dipper.

Dipper gulped nervously, and a bright orange hard hat popped into existence on his head.

The woman's eyes flicked up to it, and narrowed. "Damn wizards," she grumbled, turning away from Dipper. "Bet you dollars to donuts that thing's not up to international standards. Or rated for heavy construction." She started to walk away, turning and spinning when she realised Dipper wasn't behind her. "Well? It's this way."

Dipper weighed his options for a moment, and then followed her.

"We'll just need you to sign off that it's a natural formation, that it's nothing to do with the Transcendence," the woman said, as she led Dipper through torn-up dirt and between flags planted in the exposed earth, ducking under the extended arm of an enormous earthmover. "Damn national parks, damn Preservation of Magical Heritage act - this is, without a doubt, the most godawful jobsite I've ever worked on, and that's saying something."

"Is it, though?" Dipper asked. "Like, really?"

The woman snorted.

"Maybe in your line of work, it's normal for the trees to get up and start wandering around." She slowed, and then stopped, in front of a dark, gaping hole half-buried in the ground, half-sunk into the cliff face. "Well, here we are. A hole in a rock. You gonna sign off on this for me, or d'you wanna try to argue that it's somehow magically significant?"

Dipper walked closer to the cave, and then stopped.

Even before he could see anything, he felt it. That deep, constant thrumming, that minor note in the chord of the world - whatever it was, it was coming from somewhere inside the black hole before him. A breath of cold, stale air wafted out of it, smelling of dry earth and ages, and Dipper had to fight down the crawling feeling that the cave was breathing.

Dipper coughed, suddenly stricken by the overwhelming sensation that he was suffocating.

"I'll - I'll need to take a closer look," he managed, between coughs.

Beside him, the woman let out a heavy sigh. "We'll have to get some people in there to shore it up, make sure it doesn't collapse -"

"No, no," Dipper interrupted. "I'm a...wizard. It's fine."

The woman gave him a skeptical look, but she didn't push him.

Dipper conjured up a handful of soft white light with a thought, raising it over his head as he ventured closer to the cave. The light illuminated only a foot or so of the rock lining the walls, a sloped floor worn smooth leading down into the impenetrable dark. The feeling, the magic, whatever it was, pressed around and against Dipper like quicksand, flowing sluggishly but bleeding into everything until it was nearly impossible to move, to breathe. Dipper could feel his aura prickling on contact with the strange magic, bristling protectively around him.

"There's...definitely something magic here," he said, and the woman groaned, pinching her nose between thumb and forefinger. "I'm just not sure what it is, yet."

"Well, get in there and find out!" the woman snapped. Dipper raised both hands placatingly, and started forward into the dark.

The cave mouth led into a long, winding tunnel, carved into the rock of the cliffs. It looked ancient. It felt ancient. It smelled ancient, the earthy smell of the living rock around him clashing with the musty, stale smell of unused attics and basements, museum display cases, old sealed trunks full of relics from a great-great-something-or-other. This place wasn't related to the Transcendence, Dipper was sure, and he only got more sure the farther he ventured in, leaving daylight and the fresh air and the woman behind. It was much, much older than that.

It also reeked of magic, that slow, sliding, suffocating flood of primordial power that had assaulted Dipper back on the surface. The deeper he went into the cave, the more it seemed to resist him, like he was wading through molasses with every step.

But that wasn't all. The deeper he went, the more that magic started to feel...familiar. And not just the magic. Something like déjà vu washed over him as he turned around a bend, and his handful of light illuminated a natural doorway, the tunnel widening out into a larger chamber in the rock. The chamber beyond was still in shadow, Dipper's light not quite strong enough to reach its far walls, but that didn't matter. The magic surrounding him pressed on him like a physical force, but that wasn't what stopped Dipper in his tracks.

He knew what he'd find once he passed through that doorway. Knew it just as surely as he could feel its magic pushing against him.

Saw it as clearly as he could see the red markings on the cave walls.

...

In general, Ian didn't mind waiting.

Anything you cared about was, after all, worth getting right. And getting things right took time. So sometimes you didn't get what you wanted right away. So what? Still, eventually, you got what you wanted. No, so long as what he was waiting for was something good, Ian didn't mind a bit of a wait.

What he did mind was being helpless.

There wasn't anything he could do about whatever was going on in Gravity Falls. And sitting and worrying about whether the idea to visit there had truly been his, or if there were other, sinister forces at play, really, really wasn't the way he wanted to spend the rest of his day. It was ironic, really. He'd been trying to get Alcor off his back for nearly a month, but now that the demon was actually gone, all Ian wanted was for him to hurry up and get back.

He was idly doodling on his tablet screen, having given up on actually trying to do productive work on MtM or on his vows (why was it so impossibly difficult to find the right words to say 'I love you and I literally put my eye out for you, I'm in this for the long haul'?), when Alcor blipped into existence in the middle of the living room. His face was twisted, like he'd smelled something bad, and Ian looked down at his tablet again, only to see he'd covered the entire screen in triangles of all shapes and sizes. Groaning, he closed the file without saving, putting the tablet aside.

"So what's the damage?" he asked Alcor, who gave a little shudder before answering.

"Well, the good news is that it's nothing new," he said, with a wince, and Ian braced himself for the bad news. "Actually, it's really old. They're putting a new tourist attraction in by the cliffs and the excavation opened up a cave that was used for some kind of rituals by Gravity Falls' native people before the Transcendence."

"Okay," Mira said slowly, and Ian could tell that, like him, she was trying to figure out what the bad news was. "That doesn't sound so bad -"

"They were rituals to summon Bill Cipher."

Ian groaned, and pressed a hand over his prosthetic eye, dragging it slowly down his face.

"And to banish him," Alcor pushed on, relentless. "He used to have a cult there, but it looks like they wised up to what he was up to when he tried to get them to open him a portal into our world from his Nightmare Realm. Nobody's used that cave or those rituals for something like a thousand and thirty years. I think the leftover magic just got disturbed when it was unsealed."

"So what does that mean for us?" Mira said, a little too sharply. Alcor shrugged one shoulder in a surprisingly human gesture.

"It might just be a coincidence. Or you might've subconsciously picked up on the residual energy from the summoning rituals. Either way, it's...probably not a trap." Alcor shifted uncomfortably in midair, his wings twitching.

"But you think it is anyway," Mira said, thankfully voicing Ian's thoughts for him. He shot her a grateful smile, but she didn't turn to look in his direction, her gaze still fixed on Alcor.

Alcor's wings gave a nervous flutter.

"I don't know if it's a good idea for you guys to go up there," he said. "I mean, residual magic's still magic. And Bill was smart, and tricky -"

"We're going."

The words seemed to fall out of Ian's mouth without his having to push them. Adrenaline made the tips of his fingers a little numb, his lips clumsy, but the words came out crystal clear. Alcor turned to look at him, and so did Mira, a flicker of fear flashing across her eyes for a second before resolve replaced it.

"Are you sure?" Alcor started, and Mira cut him off, pressing a hand against his chest when he started to drift towards the couch.

"If Ian's okay with it, then yes. Let's get this show on the road!" Her bright, cheerful tone sounded strained, but Alcor didn't seem to notice, watching Ian carefully instead.

"Look, it's not that I don't trust you, but even the big cat enclosure at the zoo is relatively safe unless you walk into it wearing a dress made out of raw meat," Alcor said. "I'll help you guys sort out this wedding stuff, but why don't you postpone the Gravity Falls trip until this thing is safely buried under a couple thousand tons of concrete and steel?"

"No," Ian said, pushing himself up off the couch despite the fact that he couldn't properly feel his legs. "I'm sick and tired of letting a dead guy run my life. I'm done being scared of Bill Cipher." He folded his arms over his chest, staring Alcor down.

"And I'm sick and tired of whatever's been sabotaging this wedding," Mira agreed, with a pointed glance in Alcor's direction, which the demon didn't even seem to notice. "This day's going to be special, and we're going to have it right away before anything else can go wrong and get in our way!"

A whole variety of expressions flashed across Alcor's face, so fast that Ian would've given each of them their own frame if he'd been animating the scene.

"Fine," Alcor said. "It's up to you guys. But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Never do," Mira said flippantly, flouncing away down the hall. "Ian, come help me pick out something to wear. We're getting married!"

...

The forest has no sense of time. Trees sprout, grow, die. New trees take their place. Fire kills and cleanses. Animals come and go. The forest goes on.

And the forest remembers.

Deep within the woods of Gravity Falls, something that had slumbered for centuries stirred. It did not have a name. Something had given it one, once, but that was a very long time ago and it was forgotten now. It did not matter. The forest went on.

And the forest remembered.

It remembered fire, not cleansing but destroying, decimating. It remembered change, transformation, terror, agony.

It remembered the one who tried to bring the end of the forest.

Deep within the woods of Gravity Falls, something that had slumbered for centuries raised its antlered head, and sniffed the air. Caught the scent of destruction on the wind.

#gravity falls #transcendence au #this is mary's fic tag

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sobdasha · 4 years

Text

i know i can’t have this but i’m giving it to myself anyway

Me, before I sit down to write a fic: "I can confidently pick a pronoun for Ritsu." Also Me, while writing: "What if I mutilated the inadequate language that is English and never used a pronoun for Ritsu again."

(Note for future me wondering why my prose is lavender-tinged with fancy words and long metaphors: you were reading Yoon Ha Lee at the time.)

I really like the idea that Mabudachi Arc appears to retcon the idea that Akito is instantly comfortable wearing very feminine-coded clothes and manages to grow her hair out in about half a year. That's mostly where this came from. Also fashion!Ritsu 5ever.

–

The end of the Souma curse should be like a fairy tale.

The evil witch-queen Ren has been ousted at last, locked up in her tower to do no more harm for the rest of her days. Ren's supporters are weakened now, subdued, brought back into the family fold. Akira's daughter and heir has been restored at last to her rightful identity and her rightful throne. Akira's faction smiles to witness this justice done, and there is much rejoicing throughout the estate.

(If only.)

The curse is not a fairy tale, and the reality is far more complicated and messy.

Neither Ren nor her faction of the household staff are content to silence their poisonous mouths and keep their heads down. And that's okay. Akito knew this, when she chose. She knew she would have to fight them every step of the way and drag them scratching and biting into the sunlight.

(This is the price in blood that Akito repays, for the one she demanded from the rest of the clan for two decades. And she's hardly begun paying yet.)

But the opposition that Akito doesn't expect comes from Akira's corner. From the same faction of the family that clawed out Akito's position and power as family head in the chaos and infighting that followed Akira's death, the same faction that supported a child's every petty, callous ruling.

They never supported Akito.

They supported an institution, an abstract concept of The Souma. They supported tradition.

(And how dare Akito threaten that now.)

Akito can't stand it any longer. The lips pinched thin, the formal diction tight with disapproval, each honorific a censure and reprimand. The maids' hands every morning, tugging at the layers of the kimono (long-sleeved, feminine in color and pattern) that Akito has brought out, arranging and pulling brisk and precise and too-sharp, like every straight line is an offense against them, every perfect fold an insult to their own two hands.

Saying in everything but words that if Akito had any loyalty at all, any sense of duty to the clan, any appropriate familial feeling, any scrap of respect for the shame and embarrassment that she's bringing down upon the entire Souma--then she would shut up and live as a man for the rest of her days.

(The head maid has in fact said as much in actual words, on a number of occasions.)

Does it even matter which is the greater scandal? That the Souma family head, known to all their business partners as a man, has suddenly declared himself a woman? Or that the Souma family was deceived and corrupted and powerless to stop an outsider from forcing the entire clan to kneel to a filthy lie?

Shouldn't the family head be willing to sacrifice a little to let the rest of the family live freely from this humiliation?

It's so stupid. It's so stupid.

But at least Akito can seize a temporary reprieve from this fairytale beginning, can escape from those judgmental hands and mouths and eyes, by figuring out how to put on her own damn women's kimono.

–

Ritsu is kneeling on the floor of Akito's room, laying out perfectly-folded bundles of kimono and underkimono and collars and belts and under...belts…? and other various mysterious articles of clothing whose inscrutability made Akito look like a child who's never dressed herself before during her few attempts.

To say that Akito chose to ask Ritsu to help her learn proper kimono-dressing is misleading.

More accurately, it's not that Akito has burned all her bridges with her contemporaries in the Souma family, so much as it is that she's frequently strolled in front of said bridges, dangling a lit match carelessly between her fingertips, while declaring loudly and at length things like "Boy this sure is a nice interpersonal relationship, it'd be a shame if something happened to it."

Ritsu just happens to be one of the very few people that Akito hasn't tormented to that point, seeing as that would involve being in Ritsu's (loud, grating, incessant) presence in the first place.

Also, Ritsu has managed to dress in impeccable, Souma-expensive, long-sleeved feminine silk kimono every day for years without having to apologize to the maids for making them assist in putting it on. So.

So here is Akito, fidgeting through a private kimono-dressing class, listening to Ritsu go on and on about padding while internally cursing all the stupid, fiddly precision of tugging every layer and belt and crease just so. This is the kind of thing Akito's never had any patience for. This is the kind of thing Akito always pawned off on Kureno when he was her assistant.

(In summation: she's in a grudging mood.)

"I'll never understand how you, of all people, can stand feeling so ridiculous dressed like this," Akito grumbles to the painting on the wall.

Ritsu pauses in straightening the collar of Akito's under-kimono for the fifth time, hands going still against her chest.

(If Akito knew anything about Ritsu, she'd know how significant this is. That Ritsu is so startled as to be shocked out of the usual instinctive apology. That the statement is so absurd that all Ritsu can do is stare at her in bemusement and what Akito fails to recognize as puzzled concern. Which is probably for the best, since she'd be offended by the pity and snap back.)

"I don't feel ridiculous in kimono," Ritsu responds, plainly and slowly and with a bewildered crease of brows.

"Well, it's true that I apologize a lot," Ritsu adds, "I get anxious and I apologize too much. But, that's because other people feel ridiculous when they see me in kimono and I'm really not trying to upset them on purpose. I know I shouldn't blame myself for their reactions, but I still feel bad. But when I wear kimono, I feel…"

Ritsu pauses, looking up to the ceiling to try to find the words encapsulating that feeling written up there, presumably. Ritsu takes a deep breath in, and then slowly exhales, fingers steady and unshy and perfectly confident while checking that the belt hasn't loosened during the adjustment.

Akito's not sure what she feels here: jealous, maybe, of the way Ritsu's breath sighs out slow and easy and peaceful from a relaxed face. Which is ridiculous. It's the stupid late summer heat, making her feel sick and miserable and unreasonable and wrong, squeezing her chest and making her head light. Ritsu's never had the smallest scrap of self-composure, not a single day in an entire life. So why should the belt around her ribs feel as tight as envy?

Ritsu helps Akito slide the kimono on over the other layers, aligning collars, adjusting hems where under-layers should show and should be hidden, and finally wraps the obi around Akito's waist to model a few styles of knots for her.

And then Ritsu ventures, each word a slow and careful shuffle across an unfamiliar room in the dark of night, "Akito. Do you...feel ridiculous in this? Why would you wear kimono that doesn't make you feel right?"

(It's a good thing Ritsu is behind her, fussing with tying the obi. Otherwise, Ritsu would cringe and fly into a flailing of apology.)

It's a stupid question. A stupid question! This stupid kimono is what's right, of course it is. It's what Akito's always wanted. It's what Akito's always fought for.

To be a woman. To wear long-sleeved kimono with wide belts and ridiculous bows. To wear skirts, dresses, makeup, frilly things, things with--busts, and--long hair--feminine things. That's who Akito's supposed to be. Not god, not a boy, just--

(Akito.)

--a woman.

So, damnit, she's embracing her stupid birthright, her stupid family. She has to. She will.

(Although there's a part of her that hates dressing up in women's clothes--hates that she still thinks of them as women's clothes instead of just clothes--simply because she has to. The same way she resented all those pants and suits and men's kimono when she was forced to wear them.)

(She misses those outfits now.)

But that's beside the point. Those old clothes, those ones she's worn all her life--she's trying to break from that former person, now, to cast off her previous self. It's so easy to sink back into the temptation of comfortable old habits, stagnating in old wounds.

But she's going to change. She's going to be better. She's going to become a goddamn butterfly.

"I don't think you need to force yourself to be feminine to be a woman," Ritsu says. And then, "Ah, but, that's just my humble opinion! I'm sorry! I shouldn't have-- I mean, I know perhaps other people won't see it that way and, um, maybe you don't see it that way yourself, ah…"

(Ritsu is realizing that this may be a situation better equipped for Tohru's hand.)

(But--)

Ritsu's jaw tightens, hands falling away from the half-done knot, clenching tightly and twisting together where they're pressed into Ritsu's lap.

"I humbly apologize, Akito, but I won't continue to give you kimono-dressing lessons today. I--I want to find the clothes that make you feel like I do when I wear kimono! So!" Ritsu says, rising and jerking towards the door, eyes squeezed shut, "I most humbly beg your pardon but I am taking my leave and I will return shortly please don't go anywhere I am very very sorry for my presumptuous rudeness!!!"

(If Akito had ever bothered to learn anything about Ritsu, she would have known that fashion is Ritsu's one--un-impossible--eye-shining passionate fiery dream.)

(And she probably would have run, then, out of sheer reflex.)

An hour later, Akito has given up on the damn kimono and pulled out the family accounts to balance when Ritsu slams back into the room, out of breath and near-tears and carrying several shopping bags and not using an indoor voice at all, "Please forgive my horrific audacity but I believe these clothes are truly the clothes that suit you and I would be honored if you would try them on, I humbly request that you do!"

Akito raises a hand to throw Ritsu out of her room. And then Akito bites her lip, and scowls at the floor on the other side of the room, her fingers curling up against her palm.

"...Fine," she manages to grumble into the silence of Ritsu's catching breath. "I suppose it can't hurt to at least look at them."

(She misses the rapture on Ritsu's face. Which is fine by her.)

Akito does at least make the attempt to pay attention, her chin plopped sulkily in her palm, while Ritsu lays out various articles of clothing and chatters incessantly about outfit coordinating and accessorizing. These pants, with a feminine silhouette but a generous relaxed cut. That barely-shaped button-down blouse with the understated detailing. A nice cardigan, dark-colored, loose and fluid.

Androgynous things. A compromise, a style stepping-stone halfway between the men's clothes Akito used to wear (everything slim, everything fitted, everything that screamed she had no curves to hide) and the women's clothes Akito has tried to acquire in the meantime (everything slim, everything fitted, everything hugging soft feminine curves that Akito still isn't used to seeing displayed yet).

(Loose-fitting clothes with room for Akito to grow inside them, to get really metaphorical.)

They're a bit plain. A bit old, a bit housewife. Modest. Musty, or at least they would seems so if they weren't such expensive brands and high-quality fabrics and excellent tailoring. They hide the shape of Akito's body rather than showing it off.

But that, Ritsu thinks, is maybe what Akito needs right now. Clothes to hide in, someplace to be herself, just for herself. Maybe they aren't the best clothes for a high-level business meeting, and maybe one day Akito will really love wearing fitted dresses.

But for now.

For now.

Akito looks at the outfits for a long moment; she doesn't lift a finger to try them on. Then she turns back to the accounts on the computer. She's a busy head of the family.

She taps a finger on the table, though. "Leave the receipts here. I'll have the reimbursement deposited to your account. Goodbye."

(Well. It's a compromise.)

#sobdasha fic adjacent #sobdasha fic #fruits basket #i finally powered through this #i thought i hated the formatting of this #i thought it was a short piece #it turns out it needed two sections and three and a half pages???#no wonder i haven't been able to write it

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